The Devil's Daughter
by 221BiggerOnTheInside
Summary: I hate you, and I want nothing to do with you; but I need you. I am who you think I am; yet I am nothing like who you believe me to be. I know who I am; whoever you are. What if Jim Moriarty had a daughter? (sorry, I'm not that great at summaries!)
1. Free

**_Hello! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so please go easy on me;) This is just me adding my own OC to Sherlock, who is Jim Moriarty's daughter. Hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

Nothing; Something; Everything; had suddenly changed.

I hate you, and I want nothing to do with you; but I _need_ you.

I wish you were a stranger I could disengage; but I _need_ you.

I am who you think I am; yet I am nothing like who you believe me to be.

I know who I am; whoever _you_ are.

* * *

"Please...just stop," she stuttered, chewing upon her bottom lip, and squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to fall down her scarlet cheeks. She had promised herself she would be strong.

"Put down the gun."

Looking down towards her outstretched arms in front of her, her eyes widened with shock, and she suddenly lost her tight grip upon the gun. It fell to the floor with a loud crash that echoed of the walls of the empty room. Her fingers had tightened up, her knuckles were white, and her palms red. Finally, the young girl looked up at the man in front of her, who looked back down at her like an insignificant piece of dirt. His menacing stare sent chills down her spine, and she was incapable of suppressing her tears any longer. The walls of the empty room began to close in around her; yet it had never seemed so huge. Her heard was spinning like a violent hurricane; spinning out of control. She couldn't comprehend any of it.

"You can leave, you know," he began. "Whenever you want. But i'll warn you, I'll come after you, and I'll find you. I always do, don't I?" he smiled to himself for a moment. "You'll never be safe, you know."

Too stunned to breathe another word, the young girl found the strength to eventually move her weak legs after several hopeless attempts. Her whole body was trembling, and she could hear her heart beating painfully in her ears. She shoved her fragile body against the door, her only means of escaping. She stumbled slightly on her way out, but nothing was going to stop her from sprinting as fast as she could. Dodging any obstacles in her way, she ran through the almost empty streets of London, the faint street lamps being the only things illuminating them. She didn't know where she was heading, and she didn't care. She just needed to escape his presence. She'd probably regret running so far into nowhere later, but right now, nothing else mattered.

Drops of rain was beginning to fall from the dark, monotonous sky, hiding the tears that streamed down her face. For a moment, she felt a sense of freedom, but she knew that truly, she was never free, and she was never safe. Not with those constant footsteps which followed her; which watched every movement she made; which would catch her and trap her once again if she let her guard down for less than a second, she wouldn't be safe.

Eventually, tripping over her own feet and falling to the cold, damp ground had become inevitable. Her weak body had finally given up, and she lay upon the ground, desperately trying to catch her breath back. She could feel her heavy eyelids threatening to fall onto her tired eyes. She still tried to push herself off from the rough concrete beneath her, but her efforts were in vain. The sound of the cars zooming past on the busy road began to drone out, as her head filled with hollow emptiness.

She had never thought freedom would come this way. Freedom from the hell she wished to escape, had suddenly turned into the home she had longed for all these years.

She sighed deeply, before finally letting her eyes close in defeat. She had nothing else she could do - she didn't have her gun anymore. She felt vulnerable and powerless. She had no one to turn to, and nowhere to go; not anymore.

She sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. The vulnerable, helpless little girl fell asleep on the pavement in the rainy streets of London. Little did she know just which street she was on...


	2. Found

**Here's chapter two! Hope you enjoy! :)**

* * *

The child woke up gently, rubbing the blurriness out of her eyes. A groan of pain involuntarily escaped her lips as she tried to lift her head. Her head felt heavier than her body, and ached terribly. Once she could finally see through the blur in her eyes, she blinked rapidly in shock. Where was she? The surroundings were uncomfortably different, and she could hardly remember a thing. As she looked around, her eyes darted from one thing to another. The house felt warm and homely, but it was filled with strange things; a skull sat upon the wooden mantle place above the fire place, newspapers and other documents covered chairs and desks, and finally her eyes fell upon the kitchen, which was filled with science equipment, and odd experiments. She furrowed her eyebrows. She was lying upon a beige coloured sofa in the corner of the living room, a thin blanket laid on top of her. Finally managing to sit up, she began to remember things. Thing she didn't want to remember... or ever forget. She was running...from...no. No. No...

"Ah, you're awake," She jumped at the sound of a voice, and breathed a short gasp. The voice came from the kitchen, where a tall man sat, looking into a silver microscope. He was wearing a blue, silk dressing gown, and he had short, dark, curls. His voice seemed calm, and soft, and he hardly acknowledged her presence at all. He continued to stare down his microscope intently, as she pushed herself up from the sofa, but fell back again weakly.

"Where am I? Who.." she muttered quietly, resting her painful head in her hands, and squinting her eyes shut tightly, as if trying wake up from a nightmare.

A thought suddenly struck her mind. It took over her, filling her up with a coldness she couldn't control. Her stomach churned, and there was a distinctive tremor in her voice as she finally spoke again. "Where is he?"

"Hmm?" the man hummed quietly, without a trace of interest in his tone.

"Who are you?" she asked instead, in desperate hope for some sort of answer, her voice still trembling.

"Sherlock Holmes," he stated, plainly.

The young girl looked down again in thought, and confusion. Long lost words began to whisper softly in her ears. _Sherlock Holmes. Holmes. _Where had she heard that familiar name before?

Breaking her train of thoughts like a knife, her mobile, which lay upon the coffee table in front of her, began frantically buzzing. _Oh God. No._ She cautiously picked up the phone, the cold metal numbing her fingers. The text read:

**Sherlock Holmes? You're practically asking to be found. -JM**

She could feel the blood draining from her hands and her pale face. Her heart was pounding in her head, and she fell back into sofa again in fear and defeat. Tears began flooding her eyes involuntarily, but she wouldn't let them fall any further.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

She was speechless, but the silence was screaming the dark, painful truth.

"You...You know him. I mean..I-I...Who are you?" she stuttered uncontrollably.

Like a ghost, Sherlock swiftly looked up from whatever he was transfixed on in his microscope, and stared at the girl. His eyes pierced through her soul. She felt exposed; as if he suddenly knew everything about her. He pushed back his chair, and keeping his eyes glued to hers, he swiftly moved towards her, and sat down on an armchair across from her.

"What about you?" he returned her previous question.

She breathed a shaky sigh. "I don't know," She shook her head at him in disbelief. She didn't know where she was, who he was, and what was even happening. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

"221b Baker Street. You're here because my flatmate found you outside," Sherlock began.

"You've been living in London all your life, although you've never been happy. Possibly because you don't like the city, more likely because of your family. You've been home schooled, and you have no siblings, and no mother. She was possibly killed, suggested by the scar across your face. You've run away from home and you do not wish to return," He stated, rushing his words, each one colliding into the next.

She sub-consciously pulled her hand up to her face, tracing along the long, red scar which started at her forehead, and traveled down her face, just touching the corner of her eye, and ending just below her ear. She stared at him, lost for words, and trapped in his trance.

"Ah, good morning, John," Sherlock said, turning his head up towards the man who had silently entered the room.

She couldn't move her body at all. She was lost deep inside herself; falling into a different world; falling into confusion. The tears she could no longer suppress were staining her face, but she didn't have the strength to wipe them away.

"Sherlock!" She could faintly hear the other man scold, and footsteps rushing to her side. But the loudest sound, the sound which filled her head, her mind, and her body, was the sound of herself, silently screaming to escape. Unanswered questions and meaningless words she couldn't understand overwhelmed her. She wasn't used to this, but she was used to the pain. She always has been; and she always will be. After thirteen years of it, it can be hard to erase.


	3. Who You Are

I am who you think I am; yet I am nothing like who you believe me to be.

I know who I am; whoever _you_ are.

* * *

John Watson sighed, looking down at the tired girl, who had quickly drifted into unconsciousness. He stepped back, and fell into his arm chair across from his flatmate, rubbing his eyes. "Poor girl," he muttered quietly under his breath, before directing his attention to Sherlock. "So, who is she then?"

Sherlock looked back at him, narrowing his eyes. "She's thirteen, she's a child who's run away from home, and returning is the last thing on her mind. She hasn't given a name, and she hasn't mentioned her family, but it's obvious she has no siblings, and her mother was most likely killed," he said, lifting his hands up towards his face, breathing deeply.

Sherlock had been bored for days on end. Lestrade had no cases, so Sherlock had nothing to entertain himself with. Finding the mysterious girl lying asleep in the streets of London at midnight was probably the closest thing to a case Sherlock had found.

John sighed again, fixing his eyes back upon the girl. Her long hair was as dark as the midnight sky, and fell past her shoulders, covering half her face, although her long, deep scar was still clearly visible. Obviously Sherlock could deduce something about her which made her so intriguing to him. "She'll need to rest for a while. She's still in shock," John reminded him.

"We'll have to give her a DNA test in the lab," Sherlock said, only vaguely aware of John's voice.

"Yeah, Sherlock...Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John said irritably, reluctantly leaving his seat as his flatmate jumped from his seat and galloped to the kitchen like a gleeful child.

"Sherlock!" John called again, glaring straight at him. "We have just found this girl lying in the street. She's in shock, she doesn't know where the hell she is, and she's probably terrified. We can't immediately go taking her to St Bart's for DNA testing," John persisted.

Sherlock sighed, secretly feeling defeated. He rolled his eyes at John, and proceeded back towards the living room to his seat, continuing to observe the girl, and John began to boil the kettle to make tea for them both.

* * *

_"Please...just stop," she stuttered, chewing upon her bottom lip, and squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to fall down her scarlet cheeks. She had promised herself she would be strong._

_"Put down the gun."_

_Looking down towards her outstretched arms in front of her, her eyes widened with shock, and she suddenly lost her tight grip upon the gun. It fell to the floor with a loud crash that echoed of the walls of the empty room. Her fingers had tightened up, her knuckles were white, and her palms red. Finally, the young girl looked up at the man in front of her, who looked back down at her like an insignificant piece of dirt. His menacing stare sent chills down her spine, and she was incapable of suppressing her tears any longer. The walls of the empty room began to close in around her; yet it had never seemed so huge. Her heard was spinning like a violent hurricane; spinning out of control._

* * *

The girl woke up hours later screaming. The shorter man with sandy blonde hair came rushing to her, desperately trying to soothe her. "Where is he?!" she yelled.

"It's alright," he said, comfortingly, sitting down at the end of the sofa next to her.

"Wha-What's going on?" she demanded, finally catching her breath back and hiding her face behind her knees. She looked up for a moment and saw Sherlock, looking down at her intently.

"Well," the other man began. "We found you...in the street, last night."

Memories. Voices, and sounds. _Make them stop,_ she thought. _Please. _

"I'm John, and you're at Baker Street, in London," John explained further.

She nodded slowly, the memories filling her mind, and feeding off her pain. "I'm Jayne," she murmured quietly, as if her own name scared her.

"And where's your family, Jayne?"

"Um..." the world 'family' made her shiver, and she began to long for any lost comfort. "I don't know," she lied.

"Yes you do," Sherlock spoke up. Jayne narrowed her eyes.

"How did you know all those things about me? You were saying...earlier,"

"I didn't know. I noticed," Jayne heard John let out an exasperated sigh. "It's obvious. The scar across your face looks purposeful, you couldn't get a cut that long by accident. But who would hurt you? You were home schooled, that's obvious by your lack of social skills, so it wouldn't be bullying, so the last person it could be is a family member. The scar also suggests abusive parents, more likely a father than a mother. If your father is abusive, then you most likely don't have a mother. If your father is abusive, he's the reason you ran away from home," Sherlock said, rushing his words again. "Now, that text you read. It was from your father,"

Jayne's eyes widened in shock. "Don't pretend you noticed that. You know who my father is!" she shouted. Sherlock leaned back, furrowing his eyebrows.

"No, I don't," he said softly.

"Yes you do! He knows you, so how can you not know him?!" The anger was building up inside her, like lava inside a volcano. Soon, she had become so outraged, she grabbed her mobile off of the table which displayed the text, and shoved it towards Sherlock.

**Sherlock Holmes? You're practically asking to be found. -JM**

Sherlock stared at the text, his face blank and emotionless. John peered at it too, and his eyes widened, and his face paled.

"Moriarty." Sherlock said.

* * *

_"You can leave, you know," he began. "Whenever you want. But I'll warn you, I'll come after you, and I'll find you. I always do, don't I?" he smiled to himself for a moment. "You'll never be safe, you know."_

* * *

**Ooh, things are getting exciting now, haha! Please please review! :)**


	4. Father

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed!**

**Hope you enjoy Chapter 4 :)**

* * *

That one text exposed a lot of things to everyone; possibly too many things. Jayne knew that Sherlock knew her father, and he was coming after her, and Jim Moriarty would stop at nothing.

The deafening silence lingered on. Sherlock stared down at the text, John looking up at him expectantly, and Jayne stared down at the floor. The two minutes the silence lasted felt like two years. Nothing could be heard except the quiet, calming sound of Jayne's heavy breathing. Finally, Jayne felt she needed to speak.

"You do know him," she whispered timidly.

Sherlock looked up so abruptly, and stared at her with such menacing eyes, Jayne flinched.

"Yes. I do. Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal."

"You're his _daughter_?" John asked, disbelievingly.

"That doesn't make me anything like him!" she shouted defensively.

"Really?" Sherlock hissed.

Silence.

"I am _not_ my father." She hissed back at him through clenched teeth. Jayne could feel her face burning up as Sherlock continued to glare at her, as if she was already thoroughly hated by them both. She wanted to explode. She wanted to scream. Reluctantly, she stayed still and quiet.

Sherlock shot up from his seat, and grabbing his coat, he stormed down the steps of 221b, and out the door. "Sherlock?!" John called after him, beginning to follow. "Uh," John mumbled, turning his head back towards Jayne on his way out. "We won't be long," he called, nervously.

Jayne was suddenly alone.

She was alone in an unfamiliar house, filled with unfamiliar smells, sights and sounds. She felt edgy, restless. Everything was too different.

She was in a weakened state. She longed for the comfort of a father, a mother; a family. That longing continued to linger in her heart, along with a small amount of fear, and loneliness. But again, she was used to the pain she always felt.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock! What the hell-" John called after Sherlock, who strode through the streets aimlessly, his long, dark coat flying past him. John was struggling to keep up with the detective. "Sherlock!" He yelled again.

In a second, Sherlock had swiveled around to face John, his face empty. "What is it?! John, did you truly believe that I would just sit there and look at Moriarty's daughter as if nothing was wrong?! As if it meant nothing?" he questioned, his voice raised and filled with hatred and concern.

John sighed, defeated once again. He drew his eyes from Sherlock, searching the streets; searching for an answer. His thoughts became lost, until he finally snapped back to reality. "You knew, didn't you? You knew who she was from the start. Didn't you?"

Sherlock sighed. "Of course I did. It was an obvious deduction. Impossible to miss."

"Then why...?" John stared back at him with curious, confused eyes.

* * *

Jayne was left in the lonely house for hours and hours. It became dark outside, the street lamps brightened and flickered, the stars glistened in the dark sky. This would be the best chance she would ever have of escaping the house. So why didn't she just leave? She felt anything but safe where she was, nor did she feel comforted, happy. But there seemed to be something that stopped her from moving anywhere near the door. Although even she couldn't figure out what it was.

After some long hesitation, Jayne managed to get herself a cold glass of water, and make a sandwich during her wait, which turned out to be one of the most shocking experiences of her life. Little did she know that the moment she opened the door to the kitchen fridge, she would be greeted by a bloody, severed head. She screamed at the sight, slamming the door shut, and vowing never to open the fridge again. She could have a sandwich without butter.

Other than that, Jayne stayed where she was on the sofa, her legs curled up towards her chest, and resting her chin upon her knees. After her experience with the gaping head, exploring the rest of the house was the last thing she wanted to do. Boredom didn't bother her. Her head was too full of questions and confusion to let her concentrate on anything else. What was even stronger than that, was the fear. The fear that kept building up inside of her, like a monster.

She became so lost deep inside her own mind, she hardly noticed the door finally opening and closing, letting in a strong breeze of winter air into the building. She heard footsteps clumping up the stairs. Sherlock and John had returned, but staggered into their rooms, ignoring the silent girl curled up on the sofa. She vaguely heard John mumble, "'Night," before he quickly stumbled further up the stairs.

Jayne didn't sleep. She couldn't, and she wouldn't. Instead, she curled up further into the corner of the sofa, wrapping her arms around herself, protectively; Yet, it still didn't make her feel any safer. Nothing ever would.

More hours passed. The darkness was increasing, and closing in around her. She heard the occasional car or other such vehicle pass along the road, casting a bright yellow, gleaming light which scanned over the room, before disappearing again. The same cycle repeated throughout the night. The little girl inside of her screamed her heart out for help, for comfort. All she ever wanted, was all she would never get, as far as she believed.

Her dry, anhydrous throat begged for water; for moisture. Slowly, she began moving her stiff body from the safety of the sofa. It was an open kitchen, hardly far from the living room, but this time, it felt like the other side of the world. She started running the cold water from the tap, and collected a glass from the cupboard, cautious not to encounter any other human body parts.

"Jayne?"

She jumped at the voice, chills being sent down her spine, her whole body flinched, and she felt the glass slip through the weak fingers, the glass smashing into diminutive pieces in front of her eyes. The whole thing happened in less than two seconds, but didn't fail to push Jayne to tears once again, as much as she tried to hide them.

She looked up to see the tall figure in front of her, staring down at her. He stared at her with those piercing eyes, burning through her like a raging fire. They seemed so familiar, yet so unique. They were empty, but full of hidden secrets, like a dark cave.

"I-I..I'm sorry," She stammered, kneeling down to the cold floor to begin picking up the minuscule crumbs of glass scattering the ground.

"Jayne. Come here," Sherlock demanded softly. Obediently, Jayne moved towards him, her head lowered, afraid to looking into his eyes once again. "You haven't slept." He observed.

"I couldn't."

Sherlock began pacing towards the living room, sitting down upon the armchair closest the bright, burning fireplace. Jayne automatically followed without a second thought, returning to her curled up position on the sofa.

"Your father is looking for you," Sherlock stated.

"He's trying to kill me," Jayne blurted.

"Why?"

She hesitated. "I tried to kill him. Not just once, either."

"Why did you run away?" A sudden voice echoed from the kitchen. Obviously Jayne had managed to wake John too.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" she rushed as he saw John eyeing the broken glass.

"Just answer the question, Jayne," Sherlock demanded, interrupting her.

"I ran away because of who he is. He's the only family I have, but I'd rather have none at all." She paused. "Please don't believe I'm anything like him."

"I don't."

Silence. She found the courage to look back up at Sherlock, who had his eyes glued to her, and was deepening his stare. Scared, Jayne looked away again. She saw John walking slowly over, sitting upon the sofa next to her. In another sub-conscious act, she held her hand up to her scar.

"Jayne?"

* * *

_I'll come after you, and I'll find you. I always do, don't I?_

* * *

**By the way, free cookies for anyone who can guess who her mother might be? :)**


	5. Broken

"Jayne?"

But Jayne heard nothing. She could feel her eyes closing, and her body weakening. Her breathing was calming down, and her head dropping. Finally her whole body dropped, and she fell back onto the sofa behind her, falling into sleep.

John sighed sympathetically, taking his arm and gently pulling the helpless girl towards him, allowing her head to rest against him as she slept. He looked up towards Sherlock. "She hasn't slept. She's exhausted," he said, as if Sherlock actually needed an explanation. He pulled the throw that lay folded next to him, and placed it over the girl's cold body. "So what are we going to do?" John figured he might as well ask, especially if Sherlock wasn't going to tell him anyway.

"Wait. If Moriarty's looking for her, he will find her."

"...and what? We're just going to let Moriarty take her? Sherlock, God knows what he's going to do! You've seen the scar on her face!"

"We're not going to let him take her, John."

"Thank god. Sherlock...I don't know if she can stay here. She won't be safe."

"She will be."

"How?"

"We're safe here. We'll make sure she is too." Sherlock finished, getting up from his seat and striding to his room.

Sherlock always portrayed himself to be a cold-hearted person, but no one knew him better than John did. No, John could see straight through Sherlock, and Sherlock him. Although, Sherlock could do that to most people. But John knew that truly, Sherlock did care, and it was obvious now that Sherlock cared for this little girl. No one could say just how much, but it was clear that he did, even just slightly.

* * *

_She couldn't move. It hurt. It hurt more than anything. She couldn't make it stop. Please stop. Stop. She felt the blood on her face, the scar forming down her cheek. Pain. Just more pain. But nothing had ever hurt more. The agony swooped through her body, and the source: the new scar. Please, just make it stop. Make it stop. Stop. _

_"Please...just stop," she stuttered, chewing upon her bottom lip, and squeezing her eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to fall down her scarlet cheeks. She had promised herself she would be strong._

_"Put down the gun."_

* * *

Jayne woke again, sniffling. She rubbed her teary eyes, edging around until she was sitting upright again. As her eyes darted around the house, she noticed dawn was approaching out the window. Sherlock and John had probably left to go back to bed hours ago.

She was still uncomfortable, and unfamiliar with this new house and these people. But as much as she hated it, anything in the world would've been better than living with her dad. Even the London Dungeons had begun to sound appealing to her. She was lucky, really. She could've been lost anywhere, with anyone. Instead, she had found two people who even knew her father, and she believed would maybe even help her. She still didn't trust them, obviously. They were still complete strangers to her. But just maybe, she had found some sort of trust in them? Just a little? She had learnt not to trust anyone anymore, but talking to them last night was like letting everything go, and letting the waterfall of words and confessions flow. How she had been waiting to actually talk to someone for so long. She couldn't ever talk to her father. She had been bottling everything up inside of her for years now. Her whole life, really. And it wasn't as if she had a mother to turn to.

She waited patiently for another hour or so at least. Waiting for what, she didn't really know herself. She didn't need anyone, she could take care of herself; that had been drilled into her head since she was born, and her father never let her forget it. Believing that was the only thing that kept her 'out of his way'. She meant nothing to him. She hardly counted as a person to him. She never had, and she never will. But that didn't matter. He meant nothing to her. Not anymore. Of course, once, Jayne would rather of died than been without him, but being such a naive child, she might have believed she couldn't survive without anything...although, not that she had anything else except her father.

Dawn had broken, and rain had begun pattering down outside. Being lost inside her head, Jayne only vaguely noticed John Watson enter the room, and proceed into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. "'Morning," he greeted her. She jumped, spinning around to face him. He was wearing a pair of jeans, and a beige jumper. "Uh...Good morning," she mumbled in reply. Sherlock made his way into the kitchen slowly afterwards, wearing a black suit, but made no sound as he went towards the window. He delicately opened up a black, shining box, lifting out a magnificent violin, and held it up above is head, proudly. As he began to play, the beautiful sound he created flew through the house, filling up every corner. Jayne was in a trance, and she didn't even notice herself smiling widely. _She was smiling_. It was such a wonderful feeling.

John recognized the piece Sherlock was playing as one of his favourites. It was gentle and calming. John's eyes widened with surprise at the sight of the little girl, whom had lost so much and suffered so much pain, look up at Sherlock admirably, and smile. John smiled back, although Jayne seemed oblivious to everything in the world apart from the flowing music created by Sherlock Holmes.

Once the piece had finished, Sherlock looked to Jayne, bowing triumphantly, and Jayne's smile didn't fade. "That was lovely," she finally managed to say.

"Thank you." Sherlock began packing his instrument away carefully. "We're going into the lab today."

"Are we?" John asked, confused.

"Yes. Jayne, you'll be coming too."

Jayne shot up from the sofa, her face burning with worry. "What?!"

"We need you to take a DNA test."

"It'll be fine, Jayne. We just want to know for sure that Moriarty is your father."

"He is!" Jayne sighed in defeat, her face like a deer in the headlights. Reluctantly, she agreed to coming with them.

She was wrapped in Sherlock's blue scarf as the three of them went out to hail a cab, since Jayne had nothing else to keep her warm. She curled up in the back seat, everything feeling horribly different. She tried to ignore everything around her throughout the journey, but it turned out to take longer to get there than she thought. After about half an hour at least, the cab turned into St Bart's. John threw the cabby some change before turning away, and following Sherlock inside. Jayne hurried closely behind them, awkward around these new surroundings, and paranoid about being outside; not inside behind locked doors - where she'd been all her life.

They paced through long corridors, every one looking the same to Jayne. It was like a never ending maze in her eyes. They turned up outside a lab, and Sherlock went straight over to the shining white table, beginning to look into a microscope - identical to the one at the house he'd been looking into. "Jayne? Come here." She took a deep breath, and stepped from the door frame to his side, after John gave her a small, encouraging push. "I need a small hair sample, and blood sample." Jayne plucked out a single strand of long, dark hair from her head, placing it into the petri dish Sherlock had presented to her, and when he took out the needle for the blood sample, Jayne didn't feel a thing. A little thing like taking a blood sample from her arm wouldn't worry her after everything she'd already been through.

She was then told to go sit down in another room while he and John carried out the DNA test. She was left there for a while. The room was plain - white walls, white floor. Other than a few chairs and shelves, the room was empty. She pulled the scarf tighter around her neck, protecting her from the cold.

She quickly became very impatient. She never kept still for more than thirty seconds, and she felt restless. She paced around the small room, sitting up on the chair, down upon the floor, against the wall... she couldn't keep still. Knowing that Sherlock and John were finding out about her family made her rigid. She wished to be back upon the sofa in the house, listening to the elegant violin music she had loved so much. Perhaps she, just maybe, had suddenly found trust in them both.

* * *

"John?" Sherlock called from his microscope.

"Yep? What is it? Is Moriarty still her father?" John began trudging over from his seat to Sherlock. He sighed as he reached him.

"Yes, of course he his. I needed to find out who her mother is."

"And?" There was a short pause for a moment.

"Where's Molly?" Sherlock said, finally looking up at John with piercing eyes.

John froze. "You can't be serious."

* * *

**You guessed it right! Cookies for you all! :) Hope you liked Chapter 5, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! xx**


	6. Hunted

_I'll come after you, and I'll find you. I always do, don't I?_

_You'll never be safe, you know._

* * *

After hours of waiting in suspense and frustration, Jayne was called back into the lab, and lead in by John. She followed him anxiously, and when she entered, she looked at Sherlock expectantly, but he didn't speak for several moments. Instead, he sat and stared at her, observing.

"Obviously. Stupid, Stupid..." John could hear him quietly mumbling under his breath. "Jayne," he eventually began, raising his voice.

"Yes?"

"How much do you know about your mother?"

The question struck her. It wasn't at all what she had been expecting to hear. She'd never really thought about a mother. She obviously knew she had one, but her mind never pushed her to wondering who she was or where she might be. It just wasn't something she worried about...ever.

"Um, well...nothing. I never met her."

"Obviously," he repeated. "Your...father never mentioned him at all?"

"No, never." Jayne's curiosity to why she was suddenly being asked all these questions was overpowering her. She felt like an exhibit in a museum as both pairs of eyes looked down upon her, tensely. She couldn't read minds, but whatever both men were feeling was frightening her. She couldn't figure it out, but it was there. The feeling had truly made itself known to everyone. It was contagious; infectious; dangerous; and pushing her to speak again. "What is it?"

Sherlock and John exchanged looks. Half the time, Jayne felt she was invisible to them both. Even just another object in the room. An insignificant object placed anywhere in the building - up upon the highest shelf - a useless, pointless object no one cared about. Sometimes, she even felt like another one of Sherlock's experiments, or something he'd look down upon in his microscope. She didn't mean anything. Just another experiment. She felt a surge of rage building inside her chest - growing and expanding, like a fire, faster and faster as Sherlock and John continued to ignore her presence.

"Would someone just answer me?!" she shouted for the first time, making both men shoot up and jump at the noise. "I think you've both forgotten that I am, in fact, still in the room?" she said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I don't know what's going on, but everyone seems to know more about me than I do! So could someone please answer me?!"

It was as if a bomb had gone off inside of her. It was a desperate explosion which had been suppressed for years. Buried deep inside of her, it had finally gone off, setting her free. Well, as free as she may ever be. She wanted to scream from the rooftops, and yell through the streets. She wanted the freedom she would never get.

Sherlock straightened up, as if he had been forcefully hit by something hard. He gave John another quick, wary look, before fixing his eyes upon Jayne. He looked at her dead straight into her eyes. He seemed locked into his position, as if turned to stone. Jayne breathed deeply, using up all the strength she had left inside her to stay calm and concealed.

"I'm sorry..." she mumbled as she saw their faces contort. "You both really underestimate me...don't you?" she said, as lightheartedly as she could possibly make it sound, although neither men seemed very amused.

The deafening silence dragged on. All eyes remained upon Jayne, who held her head up high, refusing to become the weakest, vulnerable person in the room. If anything, she may of been the strongest, considering everything she'd been through. It's inevitable when you have a consulting criminal for a father.

"Why are you asking me questions about my mother?" she asked, trying to break the tension that she could feel building up in the room, although what she didn't realize was that the question only increased it. John began making his way forwards, loudly clearing his throat to speak, but Sherlock quickly interrupted him.

"We know who your mother is."

Jayne froze, as if those words had made her body turn to stone. She breathed deeply to stop herself from shouting, screaming...or crying. She didn't understand what she was feeling. She noticed many emotions swirling through her, and she could only wonder which one would come out strongest.

"H-how?" was all she managed to say.

"We've known her for a long while, actually. She works here. Her name is Molly Hooper," John piped up, looking down at Jayne with warm eyes. Jayne felt like she could burst into tears, and cry until there was nothing left.

She felt her phone buzz.

It felt heavy in her pocket, as if it was weighing her down. She bit down on her lip, but kept her eyes up, looking straight ahead of her. That phone felt like hell in a machine to her. Why did she even still have it? She knew the only person who would ever send her any texts or call her was the one person she was desperately trying to avoid. So why was it still buried deep inside the pocket of her jeans? She wanted to throw her phone violently against the wall, to watch it smash before her eyes. She wanted to watch it burn, watch it quickly leave existence. She reached for her phone in her pocket, and read the text that she had just received.

**Do you want them to live? Come back. Come and play. -JM**

Her breathing quickly became uneven and shaky as she tried to get air back into her lungs. Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream. Scream until her life faded out, as she knew it would soon do. She wasn't going to let her father do this. There was only one solution she could find. She couldn't let Sherlock, John, and the mother she never knew die. If they did, it would be because of her. She wished she had never left, that she had never been found lying on the streets. That way the only person who would have to suffer was her. Now they were all involved in Moriarty's sick little games, and it was all because of her. She wouldn't let this happen.

"I-I...I have to go." Pathetic, she knew, but it was the only excuse she could find. What else could she say? If she told them what was really happening, they'd never let her go, but she knew this was something she had to do. Yes, she would do it. She was petrified, but she had no other choice. She wouldn't let this happen. He was strong, but she would be stronger. She'd have to face him, but she would never let him win. She'd face him, but this time she won't ever back down. She won't give up. She won't let them die.

Before Sherlock or John could even comprehend what she had said, she had sprinted from the lab, rushing out the door and shot through the long, winding corridors, her heart pounding viciously in her chest, adrenalin flowing through her veins, and her breath coming out in short puffs. She could vaguely hear their voices calling after her, and despite how much she wanted to fall back into them and pretend she was safe for another day, she knew she couldn't. She couldn't pretend for the rest of her life. Once she had escaped the endless maze of corridors and mysterious doors that surrounded them, she slowed down her pace, in no rush to meet her death.

She almost didn't notice the thick, blue scarf that was still wrapped tightly around her neck.

* * *

"Jayne! Jayne!" John called after the girl, prepared to leave the room and follow her, but suddenly a hand against his shoulder pulling him back had too much force, and he turned around to see Sherlock up on his feet, staring into John's eyes, not looking the slightest bit worried or concerned.

"Sherlock, she's just run off! Just like that, and you're gonna just let her?" He objected.

"She's his daughter. She's lived with him all her life, John. She wouldn't just go back to him cheerfully, and out of choice. Something's obviously happened and we have no choice but to let her go."

"Do you really trust her that much?" John questioned, slightly admirably, but then decided that was the wrong question to ask.

"I knew exactly who she was before we even met her. I've told you that. Of course I trust her, despite who her father his."

John sighed, defeated once again by the the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. He trusted him more than anyone, so didn't bother to argue anymore than that.

"Pass me my phone," Sherlock demanded after a few seconds.

John sighed again, reaching to his coat to find Sherlock's coat, and throwing it to him. Sherlock caught it perfectly, using little effort.

Sherlock scrolled through his texts, but stopped abruptly as he found one which was unread.

**She wants to save you, you know. Caring really is a dangerous disadvantage, isn't it, Sherlock? -JM x**

John was still rummaging through Sherlock's coat after he'd noticed one missing item.

"Uh, Sherlock? Where's your handgun?"

* * *

**Ah, enjoyed writing this chapter :) please review and everything, it means so much xx**


	7. Going Under

Jayne breathed deeply as she walked through the lonely streets. They had always seemed so busy and crowded usually. They were so full of people rushing around so quickly they hardly had time to think. But now, the streets seemed empty. The bare atmosphere was familiar. She remembered that one night...

_Dodging any obstacles in her way, she ran through the almost empty streets of London, the faint street lamps being the only things illuminating them. She didn't know where she was heading, and she didn't care. She just needed to escape his presence. She'd probably regret running so far into nowhere later, but right now, nothing else mattered. Drops of rain was beginning to fall from the dark, monotonous sky, hiding the tears that streamed down her face._

In some ways, Jayne couldn't of been more grateful that John and Sherlock had found her on that night. She could be dead right now if they hadn't, and she knew that for a fact. She never regretted running so far into nowhere, because that nowhere was the one place she actually felt...happy.

With her hands trembling uncontrollably, and the rest of her body just feeling painful, she entered the place she had lived her whole life. The place she hated to call home. It was hardly a house, more like a dark, cold basement. It was a large, square room, the walls were made from grey stone, and covered in graffiti. It was colder and darker in here than it was outside. It seemed so abandoned, so invisible to the rest of the world. It was an isolated building, and that was just what Moriarty had intended. To isolate himself and the girl from everyone else. No one would ever find her.

Chills shot through her spine, and with one last encouraging squeeze of Sherlock's scarf, she moved her hand down to feel the shape of the handgun in her pocket. She knew she shouldn't of stolen it from Sherlock, but when their lives were at stake, she believed she had made the right decision. But the decision to leave the safety of those she trusted, and enter the hands of the consulting criminal...that was a different matter. She couldn't walk away from it now. She was there, the damage had been done, and the trap had been set, and now she would just have to face it all.

"I'm here!" she called out into the darkness. "Well? You wanted me here, now you've got me!" she waited for a reply, but there was nothing but silence. She walked further into the room, hand still firmly upon her gun. The heavy metal door began slamming behind her, making the entire room shake, and the noise boomed through and hit the walls. She jumped, and worried it had been locked. She told herself it didn't matter if it had been - she wasn't turning back now.

On some level, she was hoping that maybe her father wasn't even in the house. That maybe he'd finally left her alone; left her so she could be safe. But this was Jim Moriarty. He never left anyone alone.

The next part frantically turned into a blur. The blur was so overpowering, Jayne lost her sense of mind. She was lost inside an endless pit of emptiness.

He grabbed her tightly by the shoulders, his fingers sinking deep into her skin, and dragging her in whichever direction he so pleased. She couldn't help but feel like his worthless puppet. "Let me go!" Jayne demanded sharply through gritted teeth. She was constantly struggling to escape from his grip, in spite of the fact that he seemed to be laughing at her hopeless attempts. She felt powerless and vulnerable in cruel hands of the consulting criminal. Even his eyes managed to bore through her, making her weak, just like they had done for years. They were always there, always tearing her through, and there was never anything or anyone to stop them. _No one cared enough_, Jayne had always thought.

She had lost herself, and was now being directed and controlled by her father. Jim had her trapped in his grasp, and she had no power anymore. She was nothing anymore; she had no control. She couldn't see a thing through the shadows, and all she could feel was a thick lump of scratchy rope being tied harshly around her wrists, and digging into her skin as it rubbed against her arms. She winced at the burn, but it didn't stop the rope keeping her arms still behind her back; useless to her now.

As soon as it was clear to her torturer she couldn't move her hands anymore, she was forcefully pushed onto the cold, stone floor, face first to ground, and landing with a heavy, hard thump. She whimpered again, but obviously it made no difference. She shoved her head up from the floor, only just managing to flip herself up to sit upright, looking up to her father once again. He towered over her, but she wouldn't be intimidated.

"What do you want from me?" she croaked, slightly weakly, but tried hard to hide her trembling.

"Nice to see you again," Jim spat, sarcastically. "I knew you wouldn't be difficult to find. Although, you didn't make it very difficult in the first place."

"You know Sherlock...and John. How?"

"Ah," he suddenly burst. He sounded horribly amused. "Didn't they tell you something? They won't came after you - to save you - if that's what you're hoping for."

"It isn't. I don't want them to come anywhere near here, or _you_. I bet you've already done enough damage to them," she growled. "And don't think you will ever dare hurt them again. Because I'll stop you."

"No you won't. No one's ever gets to me. Not even you."

"I've come close. I'm your daughter."

"I'm your father."

"Unfortunately." She spat, hatred falling from her words like bricks. Their voices were barely whispers between the gloomy mists of the shadows. The rope continued to gauge into her skin, cutting through to form more scars down her arms. Luckily it was nothing too severe.

She whined through her gritted teeth, but didn't let out the scream that was pushing at her throat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not today, she wouldn't.

"Jayne Moriarty," he began wistfully. "Your mother chose that name, you know."

"What happened to her?"

"Oh. Oh dear. Do they not tell you _anything_?"

She looked down towards the ground, avoiding his eyes which lay fixed upon her. "What do you want from me?" she repeated. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, don't you worry. I have something very special planned."

* * *

**She wants to save you, you know. Caring really is a dangerous disadvantage, isn't it, Sherlock? -JM x**

"She's taken it," Sherlock stated, sounding concerned. "She's taken the handgun."

"What?"

"We have to go, John."

"I thought you said we wouldn't?"

Sherlock leaped from his seat, rushing to John's side to heave his coat and drape it around his shoulders. Meanwhile, he threw him his phone, displaying the text. John almost fell forwards onto the floor as he read it. He didn't bother to get his coat before following Sherlock out the door.

"Sherlock, what the hell are we going to do? We have no idea where they are or.." he trailed off, fighting for breath.

"No, but I have my suspicions. We'll find her." John handed Sherlock back his phone, and he sent another text. "Mycroft." he explained, waving his phone in front of John, and swiveling around to search through the street.

"Oh my god..." John said hoarsely. "Why did she... Why the hell did she do that?"

"He threatened her. He threatened her with our lives, John. She wanted to save us, that's what he means."

John's head was spinning, but he tried to ignore it as they hurried further through the streets.

* * *

**Sorry it took me a while to update this chapter, I was struggling a bit:L But I'll try to keep it going! Again, please review. Merry Christmas and have a Happy new year :) xx**


	8. Imaginary

Jayne lay against the cold, solid concrete, paralyzed. She squinted her eyes shut, scrunching up her face to force back the tears. Her hands were still bound behind her back for good measure. She longed to give in, to let him take her and kill her in any way he wished, but no. She would keep fighting against him. Even if it pushed her to the edge, to the point where she thought she was worthless to everyone, she could continue fighting against him.

Even if she had to sell her soul to the devil.

She was now being kicked around, shoved against the walls, but her father wasn't touching her in the slightest. He was no where near her. She had lost her mind, lost her self-control. "Ww-what was tha'?" she mumbled hopelessly. She had been drugged unknowingly. She was crawling across the floor like a pathetic toddler.

"Don't worry, soon enough the effects from it will fade," Jim assured, although how much of what came out of his mouth was true? Jayne didn't bother believing a word anymore. She blinked frantically. The world was spinning, and filled with unusual spirals of colours.

Sudden impact. Against her head was suddenly...the floor. What was happening? She was in a different world, a different planet, possibly a different universe inside her head. If that was even possible. She didn't know if she could handle this confusion for much longer. She had lost herself. She could only hear vague, loud sounds from her surroundings every now and again:

"Ah...Nice...See you..."

"Jayne...JAYNE!" _wait...wait, who was that? _Hallucinations now, she thought. She was hearing things, her mind was playing tricks with her. She couldn't possibly be hearing... John? No, John couldn't be there. The drug was having worse and worse effects on her. Why couldn't all these just stop?

Pictures, images, and sounds tumbled through her mind. They were hurtful, sounds of distant screams, shouts, tears, and gun shots. But what was that? The soft, calming sound of violin music merged into the sounds, draining out all the other images and all the other frightful sounds. She felt scared, emotionally drained and ruined, but the music was capable of making all that disappear. Other voices began to enter her world.

_"Please don't believe I'm anything like him." _  
_"I don't."_

_ "We found you...in the street, last night."_

_"We know who your mother is."_

_"It's alright."_

The familiar voices faded. Now, the violin was all there was. Just the beauty that was left, but Jayne didn't mind. The music was comforting, and made her calm. She could feel herself fading, falling down and away from everything else. Everything seemed...peaceful. It was like the best dream she had ever had, and she was starting to enjoy it. She didn't want to wake up, she didn't want to return to earth, where everything was a nightmare. She wanted to stay in her imaginary home, where she could admire Sherlock's violin forever. Life didn't seem worth it anymore. If she wasn't such a coward, she would've ended it years ago; but she had hope. She hoped that it would all get better one day. It never did though, and maybe now, she wouldn't have to build up the courage, and it was about to end now.

But then she woke up.

Yes, reality was beginning to make itself known again. She was dreading waking up and returning to the pain and agony Jim Moriarty was about to put her through. With no one there to save her, or show her any kindness again, it was going to be living hell once again. Voices began forming words, and words, sentences. But they were not ones she was imagining inside her head. They were real voices again:

"Jayne! RUN! What are you doing?!" she could hear, but couldn't find the strength or energy to do as the voice commanded. Her body was defeating her. She began opening her eyes again to the darkness she remembered too well._ John?!_

"John... What are you..." She couldn't speak. Obviously the effects of the drugs hadn't worn off just yet. It was Sherlock and John. What the hell were they doing here? This was her fight. Why were they risking getting hurt, just because she ran off? Wait. Her handgun, in her pocket. She reached for it, weakly, only to find her hands still stuck with the rope deepening into her wrists. She pulled, and trying for all she was worth, to break the rope. Her attempts were in vain. The rope was thick, and seemed unbreakable. Her wrists were getting scratched and cut; practically torn apart. She could feel the cool, smooth feeling of a knife against her arm, and a spark of panic surged through her. But instead of cutting coarsely through her skin, the rope was sliced, freeing her agonizing wrists. She gasped, and sighed with relief. But who...?

"Jayne, are you alright?" a voice called. The voice unmistakably belonged to Sherlock, without a doubt. She could feel a soft, relieving hand resting upon her shoulder, as she held her body up against the floor with her hands. She was trembling like nothing else, and she could feel it. It wouldn't stop. Nothing would, and it was all overwhelming her. The weakness, the strength. The pain, the relief. It was all falling and tumbling at her all at once. It was like a punch in the stomach so fierce that she was toppling over and falling down millions of mountains and never hitting the ground. Until she did. She fell forwards and into Sherlock's arms inevitably. She had failed herself, and had let herself go. She couldn't handle it all anymore, it was horrible, but what else could she do? She didn't know what had happened, and she felt drained. She had to let go.

* * *

Sherlock watched as Jayne fell into him weakly, as if there was nothing left. He sighed, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his arms to lift her. "Come on, we need to get her home."

"Yeah..." John muttered back, getting up from the ground from another traumatic experience with the consulting criminal.

"She'll need to rest for a few hours,"

"Yep. Whatever drug Moriarty gave her..." John wondered, sighing angrily.

"I don't know. But there was always the chance it could've been fatal."

"She'll be fine, though?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Won't she?" John pushed.

"Of course she will, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock finally replied, sharply. He lifted her gently in his arms, knowing she wouldn't wake up for anything. She was almost being cradled in his arms, although that was mostly her fault for collapsing in such a position. John smiled a little at the sight, but then furrowed his eyebrows, quizzically. "We can't let her go anywhere anymore."

"Always the chance she'll come back here if Moriarty threatens her again."

"Exactly, and next time could be worse," John sighed. "What about Molly?"

"We'll have to tell her soon." And after that, they were both silent until the returned to Baker Street.

* * *

"How long was I asleep?" Jayne yawned as she woke, rubbing her blurry eyes with loose fists, and sitting up on the sofa. She had a hunch she'd been asleep for far too long, since her bones were aching like she hadn't moved them in days.

"You've been unconscious for twenty-six hours." Sherlock explained. When Jayne could eventually see clearly, she saw Sherlock sitting at the small desk in the living room of 221b in front of his laptop, keeping his eyes glued to the screen, and John walking over from the kitchen to kneel down beside her.

"Hey, you alright? Let me see your hands," he asked softly. She was wary of the state of her wrists, and wanted to just keep them hidden. She kept her hands close to her and out of John's reach. "It's fine, I'm a doctor," he reassured her after a minute. Knowing she was going to lose anyway, Jayne let John take her hands and observe her damaged wrists. They were covered in scratches, burns and cuts caused by the rope.

John looked at them worryingly, and then back up at her sympathetically. She followed him into the kitchen to get her wrists cleaned and bandaged up, and immediately they began to feel better. "Thank you," she muttered. After that, she went to sit back in her space on the sofa, but was later asked to move when Sherlock felt the need to lie down across it. Reluctantly she did, and moved to sit in the empty armchair.

Her head was still messed up and spinning, she couldn't think straight. She had no idea what went on during the time she was under the influence of the drug. Sherlock and John came, she knew that. But nothing else. She wondered what they thought about her leaving in the first place, but chose not to mention that unless they did first. She still had so many unanswered questions, confusions, and theories, but none of them made any sense to her. She couldn't put the pieces of the puzzle together. Nothing was fitting together just yet. She could hardly remember her tornado of thoughts that flew out of control inside her mind while the drug was in her system, let alone what was happening in the real world at that time. She didn't mind what happened to her next, whether it was Jim coming after her, or Sherlock and John protecting her. Right now, she didn't care.

"Sherlock?" She asked the detective timidly after a few hours.

"Hmm?" he replied vaguely. He was lying back against the sofa, his eyes closed, his hands up towards his face, and his long legs dangling off the end.

"I-I have your scarf," she said, unwrapping it from around her neck, and going over to the coat hanger to drape it over a spare hook.

"Oh. Thank you," he muttered as if he had forgotten about it completely, opening his eyes.

"Could you play your violin?"

* * *

**Hope you all enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, your reviews are so sweet xx **


	9. Questions

Night had fallen again on Baker Street, and the lamp posts brightened up the streets. The moon was full in the sky, and seemed like an eye, looking down upon the world. Jayne gazed out the window from her chair, admiring the beauty of the night, and the stars that hung from above. It was nearing midnight, but no one in the house was asleep yet. Perhaps everyone had too much on their mind, or Jayne certainly did. Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, wrapping the blanket John had offered her further around her shoulders. The fireplace crackled and blazed violently in the corner of the room, creating a warming atmosphere. Jayne was deep in thought when she finally heard John arriving home and coming to sit on the armchair opposite her. She looked back at him quizzically, but didn't utter a word. Instead, she lowered her eyes to the floor, clearing her throat. The silence lingered, and John was the first to break it.

"Are you alright?" he huffed. Jayne looked back at him questionably. She couldn't quite figure out how to answer the question. It was such a simple question, she thought, but at the time, perhaps it was one of the hardest to answer. Ever. She didn't know how to reply, so she began shuffling in her chair, tugging on her blanket again. "Well, sort of," she finally said, as truthful as she could possibly make it.

John moved from his chair to reach her, placing the back of his hand upon her forehead. "Temperature's gone down," he said, before walking slowly back to sit. Jayne nodded back gratefully. "Do you know what drug he gave you?" The question seemed like one being held by a thread, and had finally dropped.

"No. He's given it to me before. I've never known what it is, though."

"You can't go back, no matter what threat he sends you." John warned. Jayne felt a fury of anger and confusion hit her like a bolt of lightning.

"I'll have to. I can't hide from him forever, and besides, next time the threat will be worse and I can't stand around and watch him carry it out."

John sighed, looking to Sherlock for an answer instead. Sherlock was still lying across the sofa, and hadn't made a sound or moved an inch for hours. "Next time," he started. "Don't leave without us."

Jayne knew too well from experience that she couldn't do it alone, and the torture and the threats were getting worse every time. She didn't want to do it alone anymore. There was obviously no point in arguing against Sherlock anyway - he had very clearly made his mind up. So she nodded, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"Tired?" John asked.

"No. She has questions," Sherlock hastily answered for her. Jayne rolled her eyes, but didn't object to the decision. She had so many questions that seemed to be fighting off every other thought that dared enter her head.

"Well, yeah. Loads, in fact." she muttered. "What...actually happened? When you came?"

Now, Sherlock jumped up from the sofa, perching on the edge of it, his elbows resting on his knees. "He sent me a text. It was obvious what had happened, we went to my brother for guidance as to where you might be. When we arrived, you had been drugged. Moriarty had clearly expected our arrival, and everything was going according to his plan. We found you, and your father had his snipers aimed at all of us. Successfully managing to get our whereabouts known exposed the building. He left and we carried you home. Next?"

Jayne swallowed hard, taking in every detail from what Sherlock had said, and trying to fix the pieces of the puzzle together in her head. She looked to Sherlock again. There was a long pause before Jayne finally asked the question she had been trying to get an answer to for days now. "How do you know my dad? What did he do...to you?"

This time Sherlock was silent, as if he was dreading to answer the question. "Until I saw you I believed Jim Moriarty to be dead. He...obviously faked his death, much like I did. It was all part of his game, and the consequences were inevitable. Next." Sherlock shot the last word out sharply.

Obviously he didn't want to go into much more detail than that, so Jayne finished there. "That's it."

Sherlock looked her oddly. His deductions about her were becoming irritating. She was constantly feeling exposed - like an open book - in his presence. She couldn't understand how John managed to cope with it. She presumed Sherlock had deducted that she did have more questions, but she would continue to deny it for now.

Meanwhile John was staring at the floor, occasionally lifting his gaze up to Sherlock every once in a while. John knew the answer to all of these questions - it was what Sherlock had told him when the first found out who's daughter was in their house. John did feel quite clueless about everything that had happened that day four years ago when he saw Sherlock...fall. One thing Sherlock hadn't told him was what happened to Moriarty. Now he knew the truth. When John couldn't take the silent stillness of the room for any longer, he went up to fetch a second blanket and pillow from the cupboard for Jayne as she had no where else to sleep except the sofa in the living room for now. He made his way back down, the bedding tucked under his arm as he carried it through. He placed the pillow at the end of the sofa, and spread the blanket out upon the sofa in a slightly messy state, before going to sit back down in his seat.

"Thank you," Jayne said as she saw John make her a comfy-looking bed upon the sofa.

"I think you should try getting some rest," He suggested warmly. Jayne quickly jumped over to the sofa to lie down, and pulled her blanket up to cover her neck. Perhaps tonight she might sleep better with some of her questions answered, despite the number she still had left.

She watched John push Sherlock to leave to his own room so she could sleep, and after ten minutes of long arguing, Sherlock agreed and trudged to his room. John stayed for another moment to clear the mugs of tea and close the curtains in the rooms, and lock the door. Finally, he began walking over towards his bedroom, but he stopped halfway, and turned to look at Jayne. "Will you be alright?"

Jayne nodded, although she couldn't tell her obvious her lies were becoming, recently. But she could tell that this one was too obvious by the look on the man's face. John looked worried, and almost guilty about leaving her. He bit his lip nervously, before walking over towards her, his arm out towards her. "Give me your phone," he insisted. "And he won't disturb you."

Jayne was hesitant, but trusted John's judgement and handed over the phone nervously. "Thank you. I'll keep it safe, don't worry," he reassured, tucking the phone into his pocket. He turned to leave, but Jayne hastily stopped him. Now Sherlock was gone, she could ask the questions she wanted to ask without him deducing everything she did meanwhile. "John?"

"Hmm?" he replied, walking back over to her.

"I have one more question...is that alright?"

"Of course," he replied, kneeling down so he was eye level with the girl.

"Who's my mum?"

John sighed. "Molly Hooper. Sherlock and I know her well. We'll go see her tomorrow."

"How come she never came?" Jayne's voice was breaking down as tears began forming in her eyes.

"I don't know. Your dad had his ways of keeping you a secret from her. But I can promise you, she is absolutely nothing like him."

Tears had begun streaming down her face at the thought of her mother. It was never something she had truly considered before, and now that she had, everything that had been bottled up was coming out.

"Hey," John soothed, wiping away her stray tears.

"Sorry.." she muttered.

"Everything will be fine. Okay?"

Jayne nodded, scared of what would come out her mouth if she spoke.

Once she had calmed down, she fell back down under her blanket, clawing at her pillow.

"Good night," John whispered, pushing her dark hair out her face, and proceeding to his room.

Jayne fell asleep in a heartbeat. For once, she actually felt like someone cared, and she felt at home. It was the one thing she never believed she would ever experience, and she felt a small piece of happiness. She fell asleep with the sound of Sherlock's violin still playing in her mind.

* * *

**Sorry I took a while to update this one! :( Hope you enjoy the chapter, and reviews are always lovely;) xx**


	10. Captured

Sherlock and John left the flat very early the next morning. They had left before Jayne even had a chance to wake up. Crawling out of her bed on the sofa, she made for the kitchen, finding a small post-it note stuck upon the table.

**Sherlock and I have gone to St Bart's.**  
**Help yourself to breakfast. **  
**Be back soon **  
**John**

She placed the note back down on the table, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She noticed the milk was out of the fridge and sat by the sink, along with a box of cereal, a bowl and spoon. She guessed John had known about the head in the fridge, which she was not willing to encounter again. The cereal was a bit stale, and there wasn't a great amount of milk left in the carton, but it was still some of the most decent food Jayne had eaten in a long time. She demolished it all quickly enough, feeling better afterwards. She wasn't sure what John and Sherlock expected her to do all day while they were out.

Jayne slumped around on the sofa, occasionally flipping on the TV, only to find something useless she really didn't want to watch. Even so, she didn't have anything to compare it to. She was probably bored, but she couldn't tell anymore. Her father always left her alone in the old, broken, torn down building which she was forced to call 'home'. It was more like an underground prison, filled with underground tunnels and passages, and he was the only one who knew exactly where each of the lead and how to escape the maze. But of course, you could expect a bored little girl left there all by herself would catch on quite easily.

* * *

Sherlock swept through the hallways of the lab, his long dark coat billowing out behind him, and John trailing after him, struggling to keep up with his fast pace as they reached the lab. Molly Hooper was wrapping a long white lab coat over her shoulders when they entered, a look of urgency on both their faces.

"Oh, hello, I wasn't expecting you in today." Molly smiled politely. Her long, chestnut brown hair was pulled into a small braid, and draped down into a side ponytail. It didn't even take Sherlock to see the resemblance between her and Jayne. Except her hair; Jayne's was long, but as dark as death's eye. Behind her mother's kind eyes, her hair and pale skin was a reminder of her father.

"We need to talk. Now," John breathed, looking to Molly with wide eyes. Molly's smile instantly faded, and a worried frown replaced it.

"Yeah, sure. Is everything alright?"

"No, not really," Sherlock answered, even if the question wasn't directed at him, and almost a bit too casually, the three of them went over to take their seats in the corner of the lab.

"Well, um..." John began nervously, clearing his throat. "You...You dated Jim Moriarty, right?"

Molly looked puzzled. "Yes, but not for long. I ended it after a few dates."

"And after he got you pregnant." Sherlock sighed.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, giving him a harsh look.

Molly's hand flung to her mouth, and she almost fell off her chair. Her stomach churned, and she could feel her heart beating violently in her chest. She had to breathe deeply to keep herself calm enough to speak. "What?" she mumbled. "Jayne...H-How..How'd you find out?" She asked desperately.

"She came to Baker Street about a week ago." John explained. "She's been living with him. She's thirteen years old." John felt a shot of guilt in his chest, and looked at Molly sympathetically.

Molly, however, had tears in her eyes, and her head in her hands. "You told me he was dead." she looked up towards Sherlock.

"I believed him to be until we found Jayne." he replied honestly.

"Molly," John interrupted him, edging forward in his seat towards her. "We need you to tell us what happened."

She nodded weakly. "Like I said, we didn't...we didn't date for long. I ended it with him before I knew. But when I did tell him, Jayne was two years old. He...he took her. I still don't understand why. I searched for them, but..."

"But he was in hiding. He had faked his death, same as me. It would've been impossible to find them." Sherlock finished for her. "Jayne ran away from her home with Jim a week ago, and we found her on Baker Street. As you can imagine, Moriarty hasn't been treating her well."

John got up from his seat to put an arm around her, comfortingly. "She's fine now. We're going to stop him," he reassured her, nodding towards Sherlock, who nodded in reply.

"I know you will," Molly replied firmly, confidently putting all her trust into Sherlock and John. "Can I see her?" She asked timidly after some hesitation.

John looked to Sherlock with wide eyes, unsure of how to reply to Molly, but Sherlock looked completely calm, and a blank, emotionless mask covered his face.

"Yes, you can," he said flatly.

"Soon," John added.

A million thoughts and emotions were packing and fitting themselves inside Molly's head, squeezing into even the darkest places, and swirling around in circles in her mind, forcing a headache to push through. She hadn't seen her daughter in eleven years, and now she has suddenly appeared from Moriarty's hiding place. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, the silent pain of a mother.

"SHERLOCK!" Came a sudden screaming voice from outside the lab. John, Sherlock and Molly all turned to face the door simultaneously, but the sounds of screaming was muffled, and decreasing. It was obviously the voice of a child, and they had a fearful hunch who it might be.

Sherlock jumped from his seat, hurrying to the door faster than a speeding bullet, with John rushing after him. Sherlock hauled himself against the door, pushing it forcefully and hacking at the handle. "It's locked, how can it be _locked_?" he stressed. "Oh, stupid, stupid..." he muttered through gritted teeth.

John, however, looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What? How can it be- wait, what is?" he asked desperately, but Sherlock was paying no attention to his hopeless muttering. He was swirling around the lab, his eyes searching around the room, eyeing every corner. "What are you looking for?!" John yelled. An immediate flash of light was cast across the room, leaving it in darkness. "Oh, brilliant," John sighed, sarcastically.

"H-How can the power go out? What's happening?" Molly asked hastily, a questioning look in her sad eyes, unseen through the obscurity.

"I don't know...Molly, stay where you are," Sherlock warned, sensing movement from her direction.

"I'm not moving..."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.

"Then who...?" John froze.

* * *

Jayne was always the one to get into trouble, even if she wasn't trying. The power had gone out at 221b, the cold air was slowly pouring through, and Jayne was getting worried. She couldn't stand another day being alone, and feeling vulnerable and exposed to the consulting criminal she knew was looking for. Hopefully, she had decided to walk to St Bart's to find Sherlock, tell them the power had gone. She thought that would be a good enough excuse for leaving. She just didn't want to be alone, but would never admit that. Despite what she said, it was inevitable that her father would eventually influence her in some way, but she was just thankful she had the sense not to let him influence her to the point she was exactly like him.

The minute she entered the building, she could sense something just wasn't right. She didn't know how, but she had picked up a few skills from Jim Moriarty, and was prepared to use them against him. She walked through the empty halls, stepping lightly and slowly, trying not to let her shoes make too much of a loud sound. She felt like the were disturbing the silence, making her presence too obvious and drawing attention to herself in the shadows. Luckily the power was still up and working here.

Her heart was pounding like the thundering hooves of a thousand wild stallions. She pondered it for a minute, and got confused. Was that noise her heartbeat, or...?

A hand dug into the skin of her lips, covering her mouth tightly, and bearing down the sound of her scream, smothering her. Another hand flung around her neck, clawing at her back, strangling her. The hands throttled her. Her hands and legs were still free, but she was weak against the man. Restrained from movement, she recklessly struggled out of his grip.

"Keep trying if you must," a voice hushed her, a sinister growl.

A lump caught in her throat. She recognized that voice. But it wasn't her father by far. She knew her father's voice from miles away.

"Your father will be pleased," the voice hissed again. Yes, she found it. The memory of the man who she had met several times, years ago.

Painfully, she struggled, and after a sharp bite of his hand, he let go long enough for Jayne to scream at the top of her lungs.

"SHERLOCK!"

* * *

**Sorry I haven't updated in so long! Who can guess who the man is? (More cookies;P) xxx**


	11. The Game

_"Sebastian," Dad greeted the man who proudly entered the House. He was wearing a plain black suit, with a simple navy tie. His hair was short, and a pale blonde, only vaguely noticeable through the shadows. He had a handgun in one palm, while he shook my father's with the other. It's not like the gun was a surprise for little Jayne, nor was the man. There were dozens of men who visited the House each day, and never caused Jayne any bother. They weren't interested in her in the slightest - she was just another dirty rat which found it's way inside. But this man was different. _

_"Who's this?" he asked curiously, lowering his head to see the toddler curled up against the wall, her knees brought up to her chin, and her long dark hair covering her face. She peered up timidly to look at the man, who was slowly walking towards her. _

_"It's not important, Moran!" Dad snapped, his voice booming through the House, dragging him back to his original spot, and then leading him away to a different part of the darkness, to talk in private about something Jayne was always forbidden to hear._

* * *

Sherlock, Molly and John stood dead still in the lab, aware of another who had appeared in the room, unnoticed until the darkness came with him. They were vulnerable against him with no power, and no vision. He obviously had a plan, which was something Sherlock couldn't figure out in the small space of time they had left. Perhaps things would be easier if they could actually see him.

"Hello, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his voice sounding louder in comparison to the deadly silence.

"You've done all this, then!" John said, exasperated.

Jim chuckled. "Well done, Johnny boy. Now, down to the point. You've taken something from me and I want it back."

"Your daughter? You tried to kill her!"

"Well then, she's mine to kill."

Meanwhile, Molly had stayed silent, and had wanted to stay out of interest to any of them, up to the point she heard Moriarty say those words. She clenched her teeth, fear and anger building up inside her.

"You stay away from her," she warned.

Moriarty seemed as if he didn't even acknowledge her presence, and simply tutted her away, placing a cold hand on her shoulder. Molly shivered, trying to shake him off.

"You won't find her. She's not here anymore. I'll give you..." he paused, thinking it over. "Twelve hours to try and find her. If you can't..." Suddenly, the quiet, sinister sound of a gun trigger being pulled filled the room. "Good luck," Jim finished, in a little sing-song voice.

"Oh, Christ, it's this again." John muttered under his breath.

* * *

Jayne pulled against him until her legs hurt, scratched and gripped his hands until her knuckles were white, threw him against the wall until she felt weak, and twisted and turned until she choked.

Nothing worked.

She was still held just as tightly as before in his cage. She could hardly breathe, the power cut had left her with no light, and she hated being restrained - it was driving her insane.

She was being dragged backwards roughly, and she feared for her life. Her heart was drubbing viciously in her chest, filling her up with fear. She was desperate to call for help, to find someone willing to keep her safe, but she was restrained. Even the thought of being locked up, hidden, somebody's puppet, was already driving her up the wall. The thought was planted in her mind, and something that strong wasn't going to leave.

Being shoved around and feeling weak and small against him, Jayne still wouldn't give in; but as much as she tried, he didn't fail to haul her in every direction he pleased, effortlessly.

Lost in the silent darkness, Jayne continued falling backwards, leaning heavily against him. She swayed her legs back and forth, trying to force her way out. She elbowed him in the chest. She bit his hand. She threw her head back to catch him off guard. She was only causing herself more pain.

* * *

"So what now? We have to go search for her? She could be anywhere, Sherlock!" John said, panic in his voice.

"We have no choice, John. She will be here somewhere." Sherlock replied.

"How do you know that?"

"It's the only reason Moriarty would be here. This is his game. Finding her and taking her before we do."

"And we have to beat him to it? Wait - so she's basically the prize?"

"Yes, she is."

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. This is sick!"

"It's not my game," Sherlock finished stiffly, making it clear he wasn't prepared to argue anymore. "Molly, follow my voice," Sherlock instructed calmly, stretching his hand out to eventually find Molly, who slowly stepped up and tiptoed in the direction she hoped would soon lead her to Sherlock. Once he'd found her, Sherlock headed out the door of the lab, an old torch in his hand. He hit it against his palm several times, muttering angrily, until finally the torch flickered on, a dim light. "Stay close," he instructed again, to both Molly and John as he opened the door out to the corridor.

The corridor was deadly silent. Sherlock shone the light across the floor and up the walls, in corners and flashed it around. He shone it in odd places, places any other person wouldn't suspect to hold any evidence, but Sherlock could see everything by them, and nobody every questioned it. "Across the floor, where the soles of shoes have rubbed against it," Sherlock whispered, tracing the faint, thick black lines with his hand in the air. "Size...five feet, and size eight."

"So, Jayne and...?" John hoped Sherlock would have the answer.

"One of Moriarty's men," Sherlock replied instantly. "Obviously."

John rolled his eyes, sighing as he followed Sherlock through the corridor. Even in this time of desperation and peril, Sherlock Holmes never failed to continue being as arrogant and annoying as he always was.

"Jayne's been dragged backwards. She struggled, knocking the walls-" he shone the light over the walls to point it out to them. "-and her screams were muffled, he had a hand across her face. Was he armed? No, otherwise he would've shot her by now, she struggled so violently."

"How do you know he hasn't?" John asked hesitantly, searching for reassurance from his friend.

"Otherwise Moriarty would've set up this game. Come on," he beckoned further down the corridor, shaking the torch about to illuminate a decent path, and try to track down their 'prize'.

"W-will she be...alright?" Molly stuttered after staying in dead silence for the past few minutes. Perhaps she was just too stunned or shocked to speak for a while.

"Of course she will. We'll find her," John comforted again, taking hold of her hand to lead her through after Sherlock.

* * *

Restrained. Trapped. Darkness. Emptiness. Lost.

That's all that was left. The wondering eyes would always be following her, and Jayne knew well enough by now they won't leave her until they get exactly what they want. He won't leave without exactly what he wants. But Jayne had nobody to protect her anymore. Her mind begged for help, her body screamed out pain, but she made no sound. Her mouth was sealed, and being unable to let the screams out, the pain filled up every corner of her body, unable to escape.

"Look. It's our little damsel in distress," a low, harsh voice growled from inside the darkness. "The only difference is, nobody's coming to save you, are they?"

The voice seemed to be coming from something higher and further away than it was, but Jayne wasn't even on the floor. She was leaning against a cold, stone wall, her head lolling backwards and hitting it gently. She racked her brain, but she couldn't figure out where she was, or how long she'd been there for. The only conclusion - she'd been drugged, again. But this one was different. Jayne didn't know what Moran had given her, but she didn't recognize the effects it had on her this time. They were only getting worse.

A heavy shoe came pounding down on her shoulder, forcing her to slide violently down the wall, landing upon the floor. "There you are. Down upon the floor, exactly where you belong, and always will," Moran taunted, a devilish smile playing upon his lips. A smile so definite it could even be vaguely seen through the shadows.

"Moriarty..." Jayne strained to whisper, pain in her voice. "Where is he?"

"Daddy?" Moran mocked, chuckling. "He'll be coming, don't you worry."

Jayne's hands clenched into tight, rock-solid fists, but every other inch of her body was weak, and powerless. She was powerless. Restrained. Lost.

* * *

**Please review, and let me know how I could improve? Thank you lovelies x**


	12. Safe

_Little Jayne remained curled up in the corner of the room as her father and the man continued discussing matters she was told she would never understand. She was silent, unnoticeable, and not causing any trouble, so she became worried when she felt the presence of another kneeling down in front of her. Her head shot up as fast as a speeding bullet, her eyes flickering up from her knees to look at the man in front of her._

_"Hello there," he greeted. It sounded like a forced friendliness had been shoved into his tone. Jayne didn't reply - what was she to say? She couldn't be expected to trust him enough to actually speak - most of the time her father forbid her to speak at all._

_He huffed, raising an eyebrow at her, as if in disapproval, but Jayne didn't understand what she had done wrong. She watched him stagger off, pulling her knees closer to her face as she feared her father would soon follow. Jayne didn't trust the man at all - not in the slightest, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about him._

* * *

Sherlock had been searching and observing the labs for almost twenty minutes with John and Molly walking closely behind him. They'd gone through several corridors and up and down many flights of stairs, Sherlock persistently telling them that it was the right way. They both trusted Sherlock too much to criticize anything he did or said - so they followed him without a complaint.

"He's drugged her," Sherlock stated after a long period of silence between them.

"How do you know?" John uttered.

"She can be stronger than him. When she's been drugged she'll become weak. That's why he drugs her so frequently."

John didn't reply after that. He wouldn't ask any more questions because he was too scared of the what the answers might be, because surely, they would only be getting worse.

Molly was already in a terrible state. She trembled, and John gave her hand a comforting squeeze. The dark building was silent apart from the low, gentle sound of their breathing, and the occasional tapping of their footsteps against the tiled flooring. It reminded John of a case several years ago. Moriarty had been behind it, obviously. They were searching for the Bruhl siblings, Max and Claudine in St Aldate's Boarding School. Max had written a message upon the wall, and their footsteps were printed into the floor. It was the same disconcerting darkness and silence as they tiptoed through the corridors then as it was now, both searching for a child.

But that memory brought back several others John wished he could forget. He cleared his mind, so he could focus of finding Jayne. This was about her, not him. The sooner Moriarty was dead, the better.

"John," Sherlock turned to face both John and Molly behind him. "I want you to take Molly out so she is safe. Stay with her," he instructed sharply, handing him the torch. John swallowed the lump inside his throat, and nodded. "Are you going to be alright?" he asked quickly.

"Of course. Go." Sherlock's tone was piercing, and he practically spat out the last word. John had no choice but to obey. He trusted Sherlock, of course he did, but he knew what Moriarty was capable of too. There was no point in arguing with him, Sherlock would get the final word either way. So, slightly reluctantly, John took the torch from Sherlock's hand and ushered Molly away, the light from the torch guiding them. They would get out the building all together, John decided. Molly needed to be safe, or she would become Moriarty's next target.

* * *

"Moran."

Jim Moriarty staggered in proudly, his head held high as if he'd just won a great war, although looking powerful was something he lacked. He looked scruffy and ragged, wearing a pair of ripped jeans, and a grey shirt. He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing around, and a dim light began to illuminate areas of the room.

The effects of the drug had begun to wear off, and now, Jayne just felt drained. She was down upon the floor, her head tilted up to look at him, her eyes empty of any emotion, cloudy, and grey. She could've been mistaken for a dead girl if she wasn't breathing so heavily; desperate to get air into her lungs, because for all she knew, it could be the last air she'll ever get.

Moran was stood to one side, a bystander. He'd done his work, according to her father. Now he would stand and enjoy the show. This was what happened often, but Jayne was usually helpless. She'd sit and watch an innocent person, but not voluntarily. If she could've done something, she would've helped, and she would've stopped her father. But she was just a little girl.

"Well done," Moriarty congratulated. "Although I'm sure it didn't take much effort for you."

"Not at all."

"Good."

Moriarty's attention was pulled back to the person on the floor, who stared at him with piercing eyes, eyes which were filled with so much pain, anger, aching, hatred, loathing, and hurt. But right now, they couldn't of looked more empty and deserted. Moriarty pushed his foot towards her. He barely nudged her, and Jayne didn't feel a thing. Even if he had kicked her violently, she wouldn't of felt a thing.

"You're weak," he observed, cocking his head down at her. She was the spitting image of a rag doll who'd been abandoned by it's child on Christmas day, it's shiny black button eyes still wide open but watching nothing, praying for help. Moran looked down upon her too, and she felt like they were condemning her. Two pairs of eyes gazing down upon her with a hateful victory, watching her burn within herself.

That was it. Finished. She'd made her final, inevitable decision. She'd finally asked herself, is it really worth it anymore? No. She'd given up. She promised herself she wouldn't, but look where that got her. She closed her eyes heavily.

Now all she could hear was the peaceful silence of a bubble she'd put herself in. She was in her own bubble, blocking out the rest of the world. It was her own world; a place she'd escape to whenever she wanted. She didn't care anymore. Moriarty could do what he wanted, she wouldn't feel a thing. No one was going to come stop him, so what was the point? She would be there, peacefully listening to the bliss that was the violin. Sherlock's violin.

Gun shots broke the violin, causing the bow to swerve and create a squeaky note. Two, three, four more shots.

Jayne was still breathing, so she couldn't fathom who could be shooting what right now. She wanted to open her eyes, but she didn't want to leave her bubble. Five, six. Reluctantly, her heavy eyelids opened up into slits, and she gasped.

A tall man turned around the room, his long, dark coat billowing out behind him, and a handgun pointed out at arms length. Jayne wanted to smile, but there wasn't time.

"Sherlock!" she called as loud as possible, but her voice barely let that become louder than a whisper. His eyes flickered towards her briefly, before darting back towards Moriarty, who looked down at her and cackled. Burning with sudden rage, Jayne shook herself, forcing herself out of her drowsy reveries. Using all her energy to prop her elbows up, she got to her feet, her balance very off, and her head hanging back floppily. She resembled a puppet, her limbs moving in all directions as she tried to regain her balance, and look Moriarty in the eye.

He cracked his neck, his eyes locked upon hers, and the sickening noise filled her ears. She winced, but stood tall. Sherlock's aim at Moriarty's head was perfect, and his arm steady.

"I've won this time, Sherlock," he hissed. "Now, I think you better be off, don't you?"

"You haven't _won_ anything." Jayne spoke up after a minute. Her voice was hoarse and croaky, and probably didn't sound anything as threatening as she hoped it would, but she was tired of not being a person, and being constantly referred to as a thing, a prize, 'it'.

"I wouldn't take a step closer to her if I were you. Because I can shoot you instantly," Sherlock warned pointedly when Moriarty barely moved an inch.

"But you wouldn't do that," he stated. "You can't; not with her here. You couldn't kill a little girl's daddy, now could you? We all know that."

Moran had scurried like a rat from one end of the room to the other, breaking upon Jayne like an oncoming storm, and had his arm around her neck and his other hand over her mouth once again. She began hitting him away, biting his hand, kicking anything she could reach.

Sherlock was still steady and calm, the gun in hand, his fingers playing on the trigger. He took a deep breath, and angled the gun away from Moriarty, and pointed it at Moran.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Oh, interesting. Very interesting. You're going to risk her life too, now, are we?"

Jayne looked back at Sherlock with wide eyes. She was being pushed forwards and pulled backwards, so the aiming could change at any second. Moran would obviously push her in the way of the bullet, it hitting her head and acting like a shield for him. But it could be their only chance. _Do it_, she thought. _Do it._

Suddenly, everything turned into a spiral of events, all taking place in no more than two seconds.

Sherlock pulled the trigger. His aim moved no more than a centimetre, and the bullet hit the wall above Moran's head, hitting the stone with a bang. It didn't hit anyone, but it shocked Moran enough for him to dodge out the way, and it caught him off guard. Now, Jayne had a chance to escape, but it had to be timed exactly right, or all hope would be gone. She pushed and shoved herself out, and with one final strong bite of his hand, she fell out of his arms, tumbling to the floor.

Eight, nine more gunshots were fired, and Sherlock pulled Jayne up from the floor by her shoulder, and dragged her with him as they ran out, their lives depending upon their speed. Jayne sprinted as if her legs were about to drop off. She sprinted like she did the night she ran away and landed in Baker Street. She didn't feel safe, but Sherlock was there. That, at least, was a start.

* * *

**This is my longest chapter so far!**

** Thanks for the reviews, ****I'm going to try and update more often, if I can. ****Please forgive me when life gets in the way! :) xxxxx**


	13. Trust Me

Jayne stumbled as they fell out the building, Sherlock's hand tightly gripping her arm. They were gone - out of the building. The heavy rain was shooting down and hail stones were continuously bouncing off the concrete, the sky was a grey swarm of dark clouds, and they had found themselves in a small, narrow alleyway. Sherlock's grip loosened too suddenly, and Jayne stumbled again, leaning back against the building wall for support, panting. Sherlock looked shaken, too. He paced back and forth rhythmically, breathing just as heavily as her. Neither of them were able to breathe a word for several minutes.

Soon, Sherlock stopped moving long enough for him to fall back against the wall next to her. "Are you alright?" he uttered when he found his voice again.

"Yeah..." Jayne croaked, her voice barely reaching the level of a whisper. She didn't even know if she was lying or not, it just seemed like the simplest answer right now.

"We need to go," Sherlock continued, moving away from the wall. "We'll hail a cab."

"Where are we?"

"Alleyway behind St Bart's. We must have come out the back door." Sherlock tilted his head upwards to stare at the deep blue night sky as he spoke, which was broken up by the occasional flaming star, and Sherlock's eyes were just as bright. Curious, Jayne followed his line of sight, and gazed up at the sky with him. The stars lit up large patches of the otherwise lifeless sky, all randomly spread out like jumbled up puzzle pieces, all fitting together somehow. It was obvious Sherlock admired it greatly.

Sherlock's eyes had finally darted back down to focus on Jayne. He noticed several new bruises and light grazes on her knees, but other than that she didn't look as if she was in too much pain. The effects of the drug seemed to of worn off, and thankfully she looked strong enough to get home. Although, frankly, she looked a mess. Her hair was draping wildly around her neck, her whole body was still shaking, and her jeans were even more ripped and tattered than before. But from what Sherlock could deduce, she had suffered worse. Sherlock was starting to feel sorry for her. In fact, so much so, that he had to remind himself - caring wasn't going to help save her. Although, he pondered this for a moment. Could it save this little girl? Surely not. He shook himself out of his thoughts - he had to focus on the case. He had to focus on keeping her out of her father's reach.

"Are you sure you're alright to walk to the main road?" He checked.

Jayne's eyes flickered down finally and she faced Sherlock. His eyes seemed to be filled with some form of worry. Jayne couldn't pinpoint what form exactly, it was almost odd to see the emotion behind his eyes. Normally, they would look cold and empty, but sometimes that exterior would fall just slightly, exposing something he was always so determined to hide. Jayne doubted a lot of people really noticed it that well.

"I'll be fine." Jayne reassured him, catching her breath back and standing up straight, as apposed to the wall supporting her body. Her legs were shaky, and she couldn't help trembling in the cold. She moved slowly - struggling a little to keep up with Sherlock as the went out towards the street. He kept turning his head to check she was still following, since she was too far behind for him to see her any other way.

"Keep up," he continuously ushered her forwards, but she couldn't always stay as close as he wanted her too. He soon gave up trying to get her to move faster, and reluctantly trusted her to follow him safely. Jayne remained completely silent as they walked, they're footsteps being the only sound either of them made for a long time, until Jayne finally spoke up.

"T-Thank y-you," she mumbled quietly as they neared the main road. Sherlock was brought to an immediate halt, and spun around on his heel to face the little girl who looked up at him with sorrow in her eyes.

"At least you're safe now," Sherlock replied, it only being half a lie. "Why did you come to St Bart's?"

Jayne hesitated to reply, and took a deep breath. "The power went out," she said. It was the truth, but it wasn't the reason, and unfortunately, Sherlock could tell. He wondered why people would still insist on lying to him, even when they knew he could deduce the truth.

"You were scared?" he pointed out, it coming out as a question. If Jayne was scared, she never failed to hide it in the past.

"No, I wasn't," Jayne insisted, but Sherlock gave her a look that said, 'I know you're lying, just give up!'. She couldn't hide anymore. "Fine. But he was out to get me, and he still is. I couldn't...not be scared. I'm always scared that he'll find me, because he always does. He's going to kill me and I don't know if there's anything that will ever stop him!" Jayne blurted, tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks.

Sherlock knelt down so he was eye-level with Jayne, and placed his hands firmly upon her shoulders so she was forced to stare back into his eyes. "We're going to stop him," he promised. "As long as you're with us, you have nothing to fear anymore."

"How? How will you be able to stop him? He'll just kill you too!"

"He's tried to kill me before too." He sighed. "You're going to be safe."

"How do you know that? How?!" Jayne demanded again.

"You're just going to have to trust me."

Jayne had lost her voice, and she was worried if she tried speaking again she would just burst into more tears. She bit her bottom lip, and nodded back at Sherlock.

Satisfied, Sherlock stood up, and once they reached the road, hailed a cab to take them back to Baker Street. He opened the car door for Jayne to get in and move over to the other side, while he went in afterwards.

"221b Baker Street," Sherlock automatically directed the cabbie as he leaned back in his seat, and took out his phone from his pocket.

**She's safe. Meet us back at the flat. -SH **

Sherlock sent the text to John, and got a reply in minutes.

**Thank god. We'll be back in 10 min -JW**

He tucked his phone away after reading John's text, and briefly glanced over at Jayne. She had brought her knees up towards her face, and was resting her chin against them. Light tears were still crawling down her face as she stared out the window, but Sherlock didn't know what he could do to comfort her. He had never been good in situations like these, so he decided to turn his head to focus his eyes out the window, once again temporarily oblivious to his surroundings, until they arrived back at Baker Street.

He threw the cabbie some change, and helped Jayne out the car, since her legs were still weaker than they should be. Sherlock unlocked the door, the warmth buried within the flat overwhelming Jayne. Sherlock hurried up the stairs, whereas Jayne was left to limp up, her only support being the hand railing.

"He was Moriarty's right-hand man," Sherlock stated once Jayne had finally reached the living room. "Do you know his name?"

Jayne quietly staggered over to snuggle into her usual space on the sofa. Sherlock was sat in his armchair, his hands pressed together, and brought up to his face. Jayne had noticed he did this a lot, and assumed it was something of a thinking technique.

"Sebastian Moran," Jayne replied after a moment. "I met him when I was younger. He used to come... talk to dad. I was never allowed to hear anything."

Sherlock nodded. "Rest your leg. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Hmm...my neck a little," she replied, placing a hand upon the back of her neck.

Sherlock jumped up from his seat, and went to check. She pushed her extremely long hair out of the way, displaying a long, red burn. Moran was strong, and holding a tight grip around her neck. He was threatening her, and Jayne struggling obviously wasn't helping. All of this combined must've been the cause. Sherlock went into the kitchen to grab Jayne a cold, wet flannel to place on her neck for now.

"John will be home soon. He will help you," Sherlock said. He could bandage up injuries etc, but he trusted John a lot more with things such as these. John would be able to do more efficiently, and shouldn't be much longer anyway. Jayne would be fine for a few minutes. This was only what Sherlock was telling himself.

"Thank you," Jayne said as she placed the flannel upon the burn, the pain beginning to become numb almost instantly. Even to begin with, it wasn't hurting unbearably. Jayne could complain and limp about all day, but she knew that it could've been a lot worse. She could had broken bones and addition scars. A small burn and a few bumps and bruises weren't going to kill her. Although she knew someone who could. For now, she was just thankful that she wasn't. For now, she was safe according to Sherlock.

Fortunately, they weren't waiting long for John to arrive back. A few more minutes later, a fumble of keys in the lock, a burst of wind from outside, a slam of the door, and a herd of elephants galloping up the stairs made it more than obvious John had returned. Sherlock was sat back in his usual armchair, and Jayne in the smallest position she could possibly get herself in, sat with the damp flannel still pressed against her neck.

John's eyes immediately fell upon Jayne, and she stared at her, open-mouthed. After what felt like an hour of silence, John rushed over to crouch in front of the sofa in front of Jayne. "Hey...what happened here?" he soothed her gently, moving the flannel slowly to expose the burn.

"It's not that bad," Jayne replied honestly, giving him a small, weak smile.

"Jayne..." Molly breathed.

Jayne's eyes darted towards the door in less than a second. Stood by it was a woman with long, golden brown hair tied up in a neat side ponytail. She had soft, kind eyes, but right now they were filled with a longing. Jayne's breath caught in her throat at the sudden realization of who this woman was, or might be. It seemed like the only explanation. She could only stare up at her open-mouthed, her eyes wide, and unable to utter a word.

* * *

**Ooooh cliffhanger :P Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and by the way I reread through a few chapters, and just like to say sorry for a few typos in there:L A review is always amaaazing, they mean so much :) Thanks for reading lovelies x**


	14. Mother

For a long time, a tense silence filled the room, but Jayne was screaming. Why wasn't anybody doing anything? Saying something? She wanted to say something herself, but her breath had caught in her throat, forbidding her to speak. She cast her eyes over towards Sherlock and John for a second, looking at them desperately. Couldn't they explain something? But they were useless, so her eyes darted back towards the woman at the door. Her expression was almost unreadable - she had sorrow and longing deep in her eyes, but there was a smile on her face. She sort of seemed overjoyed, but at the same time she looked terribly broken. Jayne expected her face was nothing but filled with confusion. Jayne was pulled away from the thoughts when she heard John finally speak up.

"Uh..." John cleared his throat. "Jayne, this is Molly Hooper - your mother."

Jayne was speechless - literally. But before she even got the chance to try and speak, Molly was walking slowly towards her, and she dropped heavily to her knees in front of Jayne, her hand reaching up stroke her cheek warmly. "Hello, Jayne," Molly whispered. She still had her beautiful smile, but tears were spilling down her cheeks as she looked up at her daughter. She had grown up now, obviously. Molly knew her as a very small, vulnerable baby. Even though the years had gone by, Jayne's bright eyes still held the memories which Molly held close to her heart. They might not be Jayne's memories, but they were Molly's, held in her beautiful eyes. "My Jayne..."

Truthfully, Jayne didn't know how to react, or how she was expected to react. Could she be expected of anything? Her mind had just gone blank. She couldn't figure out if her world was crumbling to pieces before her eyes, or if she was getting stronger. She couldn't tell if she was happy, sad, or angry. Should she be any of those things at all? Everything was just...blank. She was confused, and she couldn't think straight. She breathed deepily, trying to actually think logically about it. She swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the lump that had formed in her throat. "I...I don't know.." she began to mumble mindlessly, and her face had turned a sickly pale.

Molly's face contorted, and she began to look worried. "Jayne? Are you alright?" she asked, trying to hide the panic in her tone. John was on his feet too. The only person who still looked calm and conceited was Sherlock, but Jayne kept him out of his sight, and her eyes flickered downwards. A sickening feeling had began to make its presence known in the pit of her stomach. Was she going to be sick? Faint? She couldn't tell. If she was going to be ill, that would mean she couldn't ask the questions she desperately wanted to ask her mother. So taking a deeper breath, she looked back up towards her. "I'm fine," she choked through tears that had formed in her eyes. She couldn't even figure out when she had started crying - she couldn't been in tears for hours and she hadn't noticed. Molly had a comforting hand upon her shoulder, which moved up to wipe away her tears. It was the sad sight of a mother wanting nothing more than her daughter back. Jayne bit her lip a bit nervously.

Molly came to sit up on the sofa next to her as John began to leave the room, ushering Sherlock out with him. For a few minutes, Sherlock wouldn't budge. He finally gave in reluctantly and followed John to another part of the flat so Jayne and Molly could talk more privately. "Where were you?"

Molly began to explain everything. Every detail she believed Jayne had a right to know, starting from when she met Jim Moriarty, about 'Jim from IT', and how Sherlock had warned her about him, but she didn't listen. How Moriarty had taken her away when she was a small baby, and taking her into hiding. How she searched for her for months, but had no such luck of finding her. How she had tried everything she could do to find her, but Moriarty had hid her so well, it was near impossible.

Jayne was still confused, but she could understand. She tried to understand, at least. It was difficult to just get her head around everything. After a while, she began to explain her half of the story. She was certainly nervous about it - it was probably going to be the hardest thing. So, admittedly, she skipped out some details, and only went vaguely into explaining important events. All she was really comfortable talking about was what happened once Sherlock and John had found her.

They spoke for a lot longer than they had noticed. A few hours, apparently. By the end of it, Molly had tears in her eyes. It was beginning to get later into the afternoon, and soon she had to leave. She trusted Sherlock and John to take care of her, and nothing felt quite right with her daughter just yet. She hadn't been there for her for years, but not out of her own choice. She hoped she would be forgiven, but right now, Jayne needed to stay here, but Molly would come back, obviously. She wasn't leaving her now.

But before she left, Jayne was pulled into a warm hug. She was surprised by the gesture - it wasn't like it was a usual thing for her. The comfort, the love. It just wasn't something she got everyday, but that was when it hit her. This was her mother, who wanted to take care of her. Her mother. She returned the hug lightly.

There was that inevitable 'elephant in the room' once Molly had left, and Sherlock, John and Jayne were left to talk. Jayne stayed as silent as she could be, attempting not to draw attention to herself, but when had that ever worked in this house? She was the centre of attention right now, and she really hated it. Nobody else said anything either, which only made things worse and more awkward. Sherlock was somewhat happier though, that now he was free to get into the living room. Jayne expected John had been keeping him still and silent for the past few hours, however long that was she still wasn't completely sure, but it must have driven Sherlock mad.

John wandered off eventually. Sherlock didn't notice, as per usual. Jayne knew she would soon be forced to speak at that point, to tell him John had left. She presumed he'd gone to get the milk they still needed, or something similar. Jayne and Sherlock were left alone again, and Sherlock's intense gaze upon her was getting on her nerves again.

She sighed. "John's gone to get milk."

"Oh," Sherlock replied simply, hiding the surprise in his voice. "Your mother will be able to take care of you soon." He changed the subject quite quickly.

"What about my dad?" she snapped back. "You can't be convinced it's that simple."

"I am not. I want you to be convinced that you're going to be safe. Trust me."

"Well, I'm not convinced. Why should I trust you?"

"You are stubborn, like your father."

That hurt. Jayne's head shot up towards him angrily, almost bombing him with rage, but managed to keep it in for a while. She thought it over for a while, the words only getting worse and worse as she repeated them inside her head. **Like your father. **

_"Please don't believe I'm anything like him."_

_"I don't."_

Jayne's face contorted as she stared up at the man. "You told me you didn't think I was like him at all! That was a lie, wasn't it? You've never trusted me at all!"

Sherlock sighed deeply, his head falling into his hands for a minute. "I couldn't take the risk at first. You are his daughter."

Jayne couldn't even believe she was hearing this. She didn't know what to say anymore, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. Her dad could hurt her more than anything or anyone, but things just got worse when people start comparing her to him, telling her she's like him. She shouldn't of fallen for it. She could fall for anything. That was her weakness. After so long a time of feeling as if she had hope, after so long, her hand subconsciously flung up to the scar lined perfectly across her face, which started at her forehead, and traveled down her face, just touching the corner of her eye, and ending just below her ear. She wanted to leave. She wanted to get out.

_...but nothing was going to stop her from sprinting as fast as she could. Dodging any obstacles in her way, she ran through the almost empty streets of London, the faint street lamps being the only things illuminating them. She didn't know where she was heading, and she didn't care. She just needed to escape his presence. She'd probably regret running so far into nowhere later, but right now, nothing else mattered._

The familiarity was killing her, but she kept running. Her stupid feet kept moving. Why couldn't she stop?

* * *

_Nothing; Something; Everything; had suddenly changed._

_I hate you, and I want nothing to do with you; but I need you._

_I am who you think I am; yet I am nothing like who you believe me to be._

_I know who I am; whoever you are._

* * *

_"You can leave, you know," he began. "Whenever you want. But I'll warn you, I'll come after you, and I'll find you. I always do, don't I?"_

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's all gone a bit crazy, but we'll go with it! xx**


	15. Jayne Hooper

Jayne hadn't gone far this time - she was barely out of Baker Street. She had always been in the terrible habit of running away from wherever she was, whether it was a home or a hole under the ground, and unintentionally returning against her will. This happened a lot, as you can imagine, up until the unlikely occasion where she actually managed to run, run as fast as she could, and find Baker Street. It was like finding a home, or what was a home compared to what she was used to - the hole under the ground. But on this occasion, she had stumbled back to her old habit. As she ran, her head was lowered. She couldn't even see where she was going - let alone who she bumped into. She fell backwards heavily onto the pavement.

"Jayne? Jayne, what the hell are you...?" John looked down towards the young girl with a more than puzzled expression, a frail plastic bag of grocery shopping in his tight grip. He stopped himself from speaking as he saw the tears staining her cheeks. He let the bag of milk fall to the concrete as he knelt down beside her, placing a soft hand upon her shoulder in an act of comfort. "Hey, hey...it's alright," he soothed gently as Jayne sobbed quietly, her head in her hands.

She wasn't angry anymore. She wasn't angry with Sherlock. She had decided it would be stupid to remain so upset. She was just frustrated. Just frustrated with herself, for being stupid enough to run away from the a place she didn't want to leave, and feared a place she wouldn't be welcomed back to. Just frustrated with Sherlock for lying to her, leading her on, and not telling her things which she still felt were relevant, when she was in more danger than anyone else. Just frustrated with John for finding her when she was set on having some time alone, as unsafe as that may be. Just frustrated with Molly for leaving her - not years ago, but now, when she couldn't stay with her for longer, the moment she really needed her for comfort. Just frustrated with Jim Moriarty, for making her what she was now. Living within his grasp as she was forced to be fitted into the mould he had created. The mould she had changed, and fought against as his influences caused her to move in the opposite direction from what he wanted. She was everything he didn't want. And now he wanted her dead.

Yeah, just frustrated.

Jayne slowly allowed the walls she had spent years building up around herself to be strong and unbreakable, tumble down brick by brick as if a heroic battle had just been won over. This was the castle. This castle was at the heart of the kingdom. This castle was crashing down brick by brick. As this castle destroyed itself, the kingdom was slowly becoming nothing. This kingdom wanted to be kept safe, and protected from all the harm the rest of the world could throw at it. This kingdom wanted the impossible. This kingdom wanted to be impossible. Jayne yearned for this impossibility like the air she was breathing. Tears were steadily pouring from her eyes as she felt John wrap his arms around her, and she sobbed softly into his coat. His arms were like towers, towering around her, like the walls of the castle. Jayne had never experienced this kind of comfort from somebody since she found a place at Baker Street. It wasn't the impossibility of safety that she was craving. It was just the pure comfort and sense of belonging she had been needing. What she had been needing for years. It wasn't impossible, it had just become something that had been prevented - something that her short life had lacked - until now.

"Sshhh..." John hushed softly, his voice barely reaching the level of a whisper. It was only just loud enough for Jayne to hear him. He was still unsure about what exactly was happening, or had happened, and thereforth why Jayne had ran out the flat so distraught. He knew Jayne had a habit of running off by herself, without even thinking about it. She had lived a life where her father had drilled into her mind that she wasn't cared for. She could do whatever she wanted, and it wouldn't bother anybody. That was what John feared. But running from their flat was something he didn't expect, and he was worried. Jayne needed to trust them so they could help her. She couldn't be running off. Although, John did know how Sherlock could be insufferable, but didn't believe he could ever, ever be worse than Moriarty.

John could feel Jayne calming down as she stopped shaking, and her breathing began to turn to normal. As it did, John pulled out of the hug and gently lifted her chin up with his thumb so she would look up at him. "C'mon now, talk to me. What happened?"

Jayne wiped away a few stray tears from her eyes, and sniffled. "I'm sorry," she croaked. "It was stupid to run..."

"At least I found you. How far would you've gone?"

"Not far, I promise."

"Look, you shouldn't run away, okay? You know your dad is-"

"Yes, yes, I do know."

"Okay. So, what did Sherlock say this time?"

"How did you...?"

"I've known Sherlock for long enough. Now spill."

"He just told me that he hadn't always trusted me. He told me I was like my father." Jayne bit her lip to stop the tears from returning.

John sighed inwardly. "Ah, right.." he muttered, and brought Jayne towards him in another hug. "Sherlock might not always understand exactly how, what he's saying will affect people. He didn't mean it."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive - and I promise you, you are absolutely nothing like your father." John said this looking down, deep into her watery eyes, and Jayne managed to attempt a weak smile. He let her go again, and forced himself up off the ground, and offered out his hand for Jayne. She took it, and came up to her feet with him.

"Now you can be Jayne Hooper," John assured her with a kind smile.

Jayne had managed to stop crying now, and a little smile lingered upon her lips. She loved that thought - being rid of her father's name if she could. 'Jayne Hooper.' A new name, a new place, new people, and a new life. Everything she used to know would leave her, and she would have a real home. A place she would be happy to go back to. John always knew what to say, and what could make her feel even just remotely better. When she's falling too fast, she's found John there to stop her. She'd be able to walk back into the flat now feeling happier. Of course, she still had so much to be unhappy about, and more than anything, frustrated about. But for now, she was glad to be able to let one moment last for a small infinity. She'd enjoy a little fantasy to believe in for a while, to stay in this world without her dad inside her own head. In her own head, she could create her perfect universe. This would make her a little more happier for now. Some hope was all it was going to take. This hope. This hope had rebuilt her a strong castle, but not one which towered around her. This castle would be built for her, and make her strong enough to carry on. She could do this now. Of course she could.

* * *

**I'm sorry I've failed to update any sooner! Exams have been a nightmare. Hope you enjoyed this (little bit shorter) chapter, and as always, please review! Thank you for reading! xx**


	16. Impossible Fantasies

**_I am going away for a while_**  
**_But I'll be back, don't try and follow me_**  
**_'Cause I'll return as soon as possible_**  
**_See I'm trying to find my place_**  
**_But it might not be here where I feel safe_**  
**_- 'Misguided Ghosts' Paramore_**

* * *

"Let's go home, yeah?" John said, picking up the thin, useless-excuse-for-a-plastic bag from the damp ground, with the carton of milk beginning to break the bag into ribbons if it wasn't carried with more support. He smiled warmly and encouragingly at Jayne as her eyes darted between him and the dark concrete - her worn out, navy blue shoes had suddenly become widely interesting to her. Jayne was fearing to return to Sherlock - she could already picture the smug look on his face as she walked back through the door. He'd look at her with a wide grin, and an expression which said, 'I win.' She'd had too many of those looks from her father over the years, each time she tried to run away from him. Each time she returned involuntarily, being dragged back by the arm, unable to break free of his tight grasp. She always hated it, but still felt it worth it to try to run again, always believing that there was some sort of chance that she might not return, and she had finally won instead. Perhaps all her naive sense of hope had soon enough paid off.

John could see the worry in her eyes, even as they fell to stare nervously at her shoes. He tilted his head slightly down towards her. "Look, it's gonna be fine. Sherlock can be a right bastard, I would know. But I'm gonna be right here, and if he says or does anything else, well, I won't let him get away with it. Okay?"

Jayne bit her lip, and nodded. "Okay."

Finally, John began walking up the street towards the flat. He couldn't help but constantly turn his head to look behind him, checking the young girl was still following him, rather than changing her mind and deciding to run off again, away from him too. They couldn't afford to lose her. She needed to be protected. They had seen what Moriarty could do, and seeing what he would do to her was even worse. It just couldn't happen anymore. She had her mother now, as did Molly have her daughter back. It needed to stay that way. If Jayne ran off they could never help her, and it was what everybody wanted more than anything. Even if Sherlock wouldn't admit it, even if he couldn't admit it, he wanted to keep her safe just as much as John did. Even if John was the only person who could see it, it was there, and it was true. No child should be living this life. A life where you had to watch your every step, because one wrong move could send you down. It was as if Jayne was a piece in a chess game. One wrong move, and she's lost. Thankfully she'd made a right move, and gone to the safety of a home, but the opposing could still see her from the distance. She kept pushing her chess piece forwards, but others would pull her back. It was a foolish thing to try and move forwards. Sherlock and John needed to help her win this game, whatever the cost. She might believe she can do this alone, but she can't be so stubborn that she won't let anybody help her. She's strong, of course, perhaps mentally. But this needed a lot more strength. They could do as long as Jayne trusted them and would let them help her. Only then will they be able to defeat Moriarty and make sure she would always be safe from then on. It was a hope, a fantasy, or whatever you wish to call it. But John had decided that nothing could stop them from finishing this. Not anymore.

John unlocked the door into the flat, the warmth from within the door welcoming them both inside. Jayne's thoughts were drifting away from her as she made her way up the stairs to the living room behind John. They swirled away in mad circles often - she was dreaming of her impossible fantasy, where she was a normal girl who was safe from harm. But thinking of the impossibility of it made her more afraid of how much her father knew. It was as if the devil's eyes were always upon her more than anybody else. As if she was under surveillance, which she probably was. One thought flowed to another in a chain, and eventually she remembered something. She hesitated, stopping upon a step and placing a hand upon the railing. "John?"

"Yeah?" he called back down, stopped in his tracks and turning a head around to look at her.

"Do you still have my phone?"

John gave an inward sigh. "Yes. I don't think it would be a good idea to give it back to you just yet, mind you."

"I understand. I was just wondering if...he sent me anything. I mean, he can find me. Anywhere, anytime. He knew exactly where I was the minute I woke up here, on the sofa. One text just proves that he's still watching me. I doubt he'll stop unless he... I mean, If I miss anything...Sorry, I'm rambling. I was just thinking."

"It's alright, but look-" John produced her thin black mobile phone from his jeans pocket, displaying a selection of old texts. No new ones. "-he hasn't sent you a thing. If anything was...specifically important, I would've let you know. I have been checking it. Okay?"

Jayne nodded gently, extremely relieved about that. "Okay. Thanks."

John and Jayne proceeded up the stairs. John entered the living room first. Jayne took a deep, encouraging breath as she followed him, expecting nothing but the worst from Sherlock. The nodding of 'I knew you would return', the smug smile of 'I told you so', and the irritating pride of 'I win'. It was what her father always gave her on a regular basis, each time she tried to leave, or do something against his will. He had managed to make her dependent upon him for a few years. Creating an atmosphere where she was lead to believe she couldn't do anything by herself - she needed her father. But that was the worst lie she was ever told, and her one regret in life was falling for it. Falling for the lies, and trusting too quickly. Of course it would happen - she was a naive girl. She could only hope that now she had grown out of that trait of hers. But maybe some things just don't leave you all together. She was still naive enough to believe she could kill her dad. She was still naive enough to believe she could do it all on her own. Although, she had grown out of it enough to realise that she was anything but dependent upon her father. She had grown out of it enough to realise that she didn't necessarily belong in the one place she felt safe. She wanted to, but she had to accept that she didn't. She didn't even understand where she was supposed to belong, or she pondered the idea that the place she did belong was the place she wasn't welcome. The place you come from is the place you belong. But she didn't want to accept that either. She liked the idea of belonging. She always liked the idea of being a normal girl who was safe from harm. Just impossible fantasies, she concluded.

Finally, she entered. Sherlock was in his armchair, his eyes looking pointedly ahead, obviously so focussed upon something he was oblivious to everything else in the universe. So, of course, he didn't acknowledge Jayne and John's return. He also looked as if he hadn't moved a centimetre since Jayne saw him last, shouted at him and sprinting off. She got a sinking feeling in her stomach at the idea that perhaps Sherlock didn't even notice her leave, let alone return. He hardly ever remembers when John leaves the flat. She wanted him to care. But it was another thing added to the endless list of impossible fantasies. She was beginning to hate them. Obviously, she wouldn't hate them if the word 'impossible' wasn't in the title.

"Hello?" she tried speaking to him. John had lived with him long enough to be used to things like this. So much so that it didn't bother him anymore, and saw no point in trying. But Jayne was determined.

"Ah, you're back," he breathed. So at least he did notice her departure. It was a start. But the previous fears of him becoming smug about it arouse to her mind.

"I guess."

"Good. My brother's coming over. If I have to endure it, so do you."

"Your brother?" Jayne repeated.

"What?" John butted in. "Mycroft's coming? Invited?" He seemed shocked.

"He decided to assist in defeating what I thought was the lasts of Moriarty's criminal web. Obviously I could've done it perfectly well myself, but he also has connections that were useful and will be useful to us now. I can assure you he won't be here for long." Sherlock seemed to have some psychological way of ending a conversation without the other person's consent or understanding. He could just do it and it would work instantaneously. It was a skill only he had managed to master as far as the people Jayne knew went. But suddenly she felt it forbidden to reply, or answer back to him. It looked like John knew him well enough, or for long enough, to do what he wanted, as he let out an obvious sigh of frustration aimed at Sherlock, before replying.

"Fine. When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"So why is it good that I'm back...now?" Jayne perked up, desperately seeking an apology from him.

"John found you, obviously. Couldn't let you get upset over such a stupid thing."

"'Stupid thing?!'" Jayne exclaimed, exasperated and offended, but Sherlock didn't seem to get the hint. "How can it be classed as stupid? You told me you didn't trust me. I made it a priority for me to try and trust both of you because you told me to. You could've at least had the courtesy to do the same for me!"

Suddenly Sherlock's line of sight changed in half a second, landing upon Jayne as his elongated his spine. She began to fear she had said something she shouldn't have.

"I've told you I trust you now. The second I laid eyes upon you, obviously I would not trust you, much the same as you didn't trust me. You are James Moriarty's daughter, the man who forced me to have to fake my death and return three years later. That is why I didn't trust you, and that is a valid point. You didn't trust me because you received a text from him informing you that we had been acquainted, and I understand that to be a reasonable argument not to trust me. It seems childish to have to spell this all out to you!"

"But you told me I was like him."

"Obviously, Jayne! You've inherited his genes, for god's sake! You have no choice whether you're like him or not, _you are_. Why can't you just accept that?!"

"Because I don't want to! I hate the fact that I'm like him, and I don't need you to remind me!" Jayne yelled back at the top of her voice; and with that she left the room with the final word.

* * *

**Hope you enjooyyed this chapter! I was listening to the song as I wrote this, and I felt like the lyrics fitted quite well. Longest chapter so far, exciting times. Reviewreviewreviews are amazing! Thanks for reading xxxx **


	17. Empty

"Smooth, Sherlock," John remarked with a sarcastic nod to the detective, after Jayne had left the room, slamming the door behind her so violently it could've broken the hinges if slammed even the slightest bit harder. Somehow Jayne wished it had. She wished she could've seen the door fall quickly to the floor with an echoing, jaw-dropping crash. She considered the thought for a minute, and admitted silently to herself that she just wanted an excuse to stay within the room with them. But she didn't want to go back in now, a pathetic mess, who didn't have the courage to walk away. Arguably, she didn't have the courage to walk back in either. But she didn't want to seem weak, but the truth was, she was. And she considered it to be the worst thing about her. Instead, she stayed on the other side of the tall wooden door, leaning her whole weight against it as she slid down to the floor, her knees brought up to her face. She didn't realise the advantages of where she choice to sit, since coincidently, she could hear the two men's conversation. Admittedly not very clearly, but she could pick out words and tones of voice so well that she could get the general gist of the conversation. She had had a lot of practice, as her curious mind as a child had brought her to listen in on conversations between her father and the criminals he talked to for hours. Being such a small child, she didn't understand a lot of what was being said. And in all truth, a lot of it began to scare her as she learnt what a sniper would do...how many people were killed...and what his next psychotic plan was.

Sherlock, meanwhile, sat forwards in his chair, his legs tucked underneath his body as he rested his hands upon his knees, and his hands were brought up towards his face. John had never seen him more anxious, or more on edge since...well. He hated that memory and quickly pushed it to the back of his mind once again. He would never let it escape. Even after all these years, the memory still made his stomach churn, and he would begin to feel rather lightheaded. He didn't let himself think about it anymore, but with Jayne here it was getting harder to ignore. With her brought the reminder that Moriarty was still out there, and what John feared most was him coming after Sherlock...again. John didn't want to have to worry like this. Moriarty was manipulating, but John could see that Sherlock wanted to protect Jayne. So did he, but not if it meant Moriarty returning to his old ways, old games. But Sherlock had returned. That was what John focussed on. Sherlock was here, with him, home.

"Sherlock? You okay?" he asked concerned, after a few minutes.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John..." John could see his endless efforts to keep his voice steady. "I haven't been completely honest with you. Nor Jayne."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Moriarty's dead."

John furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?" he repeated. "He can't be. How?"

Sherlock let out another breath. "If you recall, I went to find Jayne and instructed you to take Molly home. Like I had deduced, Jayne had been drugged. She wasn't capable of doing anything, until she saw me, which was when she attempted to get up. Moran had her in a headlock then. I shot the wall above their heads. It was shocking enough to take Moran by surprise, in which he loosened his grip. Jayne managed to escape. Moran and Moriarty were still free to grab her back, even when she ran towards me. She was still vulnerable. I fired the gun as a shock tactic, but the bullet hit him. The bullet didn't hit so perfectly it was instantly fatal. It hit his leg. He couldn't of got medical treatment without leaving his hiding. So logically, he lost too much blood too quickly, and became unable to move. It wouldn't of killed him painlessly. It was slow, and excruciating."

For a moment, John was speechless, as a heavy lump formed in his throat. "So... he is dead? Are you sure?" he asked. He realised this had happened before. Moriarty had faked his death with another bullet. He'd cheated death, and could do it again.

"He shot himself on the roof. He had a purpose for doing so - to stop anyone from stopping the snipers. Now, he has no reason. He'd still be here searching for Jayne, tracking her down, preparing for her to be killed. You have her mobile phone. Any new messages?" he suddenly asked. John shook his head. "No, precisely. If he were still here, he would've invited us to another one of his...games. He would have another plan, another way to try again. He wouldn't give up so seamlessly. We'd have no sign of him since. It's the only logical conclusion, and one of which I'm sure of."

John huffed, once again amazed at Sherlock's deductions. He wasn't sure how to react, because Sherlock seemed to be on edge about it. If it were just them, they probably would've been relieved, or even pretty happy. But they had Jayne to worry about. It just proved how much Sherlock really was concerned about her, and determined to safe her life. It wasn't just a case. They'd never had a case which involved a child before. Unless you include the child down the phone as Sherlock hastily deduced how a fake painting was different to the original. But this was different. That child was saved, quickly. They had Jayne to worry about.

"So Jayne is safe?" John asked, a glimmer of hopefullness in his voice.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted slowly. "That's why Mycroft's coming. Molly still has custody, and it will all be sorted in best interest of the child. If she can live with her mother, she will be. But Moriarty is the centre of a criminal web. All were dead as I killed them during my three years away. The only remnants of the web is Moran, unless Moriarty has a back-up, or something we've been unable to discover. We'll speak to Mycroft tomorrow."

"We need to speak to Jayne too. You know that," John insisted. "Right now, I think she's the most important person to be concerned about."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. For once he decided voluntarily to be as honest as possible to her. She might hate him, but she would hate him more if he didn't tell her. He would have to live with it. "Where is she?"

John's eyes widened as he turned his head with a jolt, biting down upon his lip. He didn't know which would be worse: Jayne leaving the flat again and going further, with nobody to stop her and bring her to her senses, or Jayne staying right outside the door, listening to what was being said. His heart was pounding.

Before either of them had a chance to say or even think about anything else, the door opened slowly, but nobody appeared. Jayne remained behind the door, her head leaning against it, and her breaths coming out as loud puffs. She had made it too obvious she was there to back out, or pretend she had opened the door by accident, or any other possible excuse. She was far to deep to dig herself out.

John and Sherlock waited patiently for her to be ready to enter. They couldn't force her inside, force her to understand, force her to do something she didn't want. She didn't need to do anything now. This could be hard, hard to explain. They didn't know how she was going to react, nor how she was going to deal with it. She could be a spur of different emotions she didn't understand herself, and she needed time to figure it out. It reminded Sherlock of when he was returning to John after three years of everybody believing he was dead. He had worried about John's reaction the same way he was now worrying about Jayne's.

Finally, Jayne entered, keeping the door open behind her. She took a deep breath, but her throat still forbade her to speak. She felt like she was going to be sick, her stomach churning and her throat feeling clogged up. She was as pale as a thin piece of paper, even paler than usual. Her eyes were wide, but dropped to the ground.

"Jayne?" John asked, his voice gentle and soft, as he tried to make her feel calm. All she could do was nod at the sound of her name. She didn't know how to react. She didn't know what to do. Her father had just died, any normal child would be distraut, angry, upset... But Jayne just stood there, emotionless, unsure. She couldn't be happy about it, nor could she ever possibly be upset. If she were happy, celebrating, she would be horrified with herself. She couldn't do that as a daughter. She was almost upset about the fact that she wasn't sad. She wanted to kill him from the start, that was the cause of all of this. All of it. She didn't know what it would feel like if it had actually happened. It just felt like death, surprisingly enough. The normal feeling when a person dies, unless it was a person you cared for greatly, was close with, loved. That feeling's a lot different, and it hurts. This was the kind of feeling when your favourite celebrity dies. You don't really have any real emotional attachment to them, because you don't know them personally. But it's still that sickly feeling at the pit of your stomach. Jayne had no real emotional attachment to her dad - hell, she wanted him dead. But he was still her father. She had mixed emotions, ones of which she couldn't understand. They were mixed emotions she couldn't fathom. She didn't know which was coming out strongest, any reaction failing her.

"I don't know what to do," she mumbled.

* * *

**I have about three more chapters left to write! Let me know in the reviews what you guys think about writing a sequel? Thank youuu and thanks for reading :) xxxx**


	18. Different

John pulled Jayne into another hug as she fell limply onto the sofa, putting herself into her usual position - as small as she could possibly be. Sherlock remained in his usual place on the armchair, but kept his eyes locked upon the girl. She didn't frown, she didn't smile. She didn't cry, she didn't laugh. She was just still. Just there. John stroked her long hair softly as she found herself in his arms once again.

"Hey, you're safe now," he whispered. "You're gonna be fine. All fine, yeah?"

All she could do was nod. It was daunting. It felt as if the whole world was on her shoulders, the one heavy problem in her life was balanced upon her head. But once that fell, her stability faltered, and she tumbled down with it in a sense she couldn't quite work out. All she needed to do was get back up, and once she was on her feet again, that problem on her head would be gone, and she could stand freely. Her life would never be the same anymore, and that was a huge thing to think about. It was too much to think about. She wanted help. She wanted comfort. She wanted her list of Impossible Fantasies to not be impossible. She thought about that for a while, going through her mental list. She could be a normal girl, safe from harm, with a new home, and a new life.

Sherlock and John stayed with her all evening. John ordered a takeaway, but Sherlock didn't eat anything. They were quiet as they ate. Inside, Jayne's head was exploding. So much so that she couldn't speak in the fear of what or how much would come out her mouth. Later, John put the TV on, and Jayne managed to laugh lightly at the rubbish soaps and teenage dramas. For some reason it felt strange. It felt too normal. She could be herself, she could be happy, without having to worry about getting caught, getting killed. It was nice, but it was too surreal to be believable yet.

The TV stayed on for a few hours, just to avoid the silence that would, of course, occur if they decided to turn it off. The elephant in the room was towering over all of them. Nobody knew what to say. And Sherlock, well, he didn't have anything to say. He was too lost inside his own 'Mind Palace' to realise anything going on around him. He didn't even flinch at the sound of the TV turning on at a blasting volume, nor the hot mouth-watering smell of fish and chips that wafting around the flat. It wasn't as if Jayne had ever shared a meal with her dad when she was with him, let alone fish and chips. It was a treat. It felt like a priviledge. Trying to make the subject sound more lighthearted, John laughed in disbelief when Jayne told him she'd never had fish and chips. Obviously he knew she had never had such a meal, but he didn't want to dive into the depths of such a touchy subject. That was all they said during the whole course of the evening.

The darkness outside grew, and flooded into the flat. Jayne could feel her eyelids dropping, and John noticed almost instantly. He was keeping one eye on the uninteresting TV and the other upon Jayne, wanting to be constantly reminded that she was okay. Any burst of emotion could be drastic, explosive. So John felt like he needed to keep watch. Once he noticed her slowly closing eyes, he left the sofa to fetch her her usual blanket from the arm of the other chair. She lay down and wrapped it around her as John then moved over to his armchair, opposite Sherlock who was still as lifeless as a rock.

"John?" Jayne finally spoke just before she was about to fall asleep.

"Yeah?" John seemed happy yet suprised that Jayne was finally talking, and talking so calmly.

"So he is gone. Gone."

"He is. It's for the better, though, Jayne. You're safe now."

Jayne nodded, and felt a small tear roll down her cheek. It wasn't a tear of sadness, nor was it a tear of joy. It was just a tear of overwhelming emotion, finding no other way to come out or be expressed. That tear was just the effect that being so confused and messed up had on little Jayne. But at the same time, she managed to smile. Genuinely smile as she closed her eyes to, for once, sleep peacefully.

John smiled back at her, so happy to see her coping, and being happy herself. He switched off the telly, and ushered Sherlock away, telling him to at least give Jayne the space to sleep, even if he wouldn't. But Sherlock only mumbled a brief ''night,' before going upstairs to his bedroom. John furrowed his brow. He was edgy, mysterious, and closed up, more than usual. He wondered if he had a plan, an idea, a worry? He had rushed off too fast for John to ask him anything, probably purposely too. He dismissed it, before closing the curtains slightly in the living room for Jayne and going to his own bedroom.

* * *

Jayne slept in. She woke up frantic. She'd never done that before, slept so late. It was 11.30! She stared at the clock for a while, as if trying to decifer what was wrong with the clock, or trying to turn back time, and change the facts. Sighing, she accepted the time was 11.30 and got out of bed and pulled all of her dark hair onto one side, smoothing out the tamelessly long strands of knots and tangles. Sherlock was sitting at the table on a wooden chair in the kitchen, observing the headlines on the daily newspaper. John was beginning to boil the kettle opposite him, but turned his head as he saw her wake up.

"Good morning," he greeted. "You slept well."

"I've never slept for that long."

"That's a good sign, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"Breakfast? Not really five star dining, but we have toast... or cereal, really."

"Hmmm.." Jayne thought about it for a moment. "Toast?"

"May be a bit burnt..."

Jayne giggled. "Sounds good to me."

John smiled, and placed a piece of soft white bread into their silver metallic toaster. It popped back up a few minutes later, and John buttered it for her before placing it onto the kitchen table, at a seat next to Sherlock. She jumped up and tucked in. As John had said, it was as black as coal, but Jayne still enjoyed it all the same - she wasn't picky, and in the past she had never been given the chance to be picky.

"Eat up," Sherlock ordered loudly. "Mycroft's coming in half an hour."

Jayne could hear them both inwardly sigh with frustration. 'What's so bad about this man?' she wondered. She couldn't imagine somebody worse than her father, so whoever it was, surely he couldn't bother her as much as he bothered Sherlock and John. If he was being invited too, he can't be so bad.

Mycroft did arrive, not a minute late nor a minute early. He was as punctual as ever, and walked in with his chin held high in his usual manner, a black umbrella in one hand, and a black briefcase in the other. He smiled down at her. "You must be Jayne. Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself.

"Hello," she replied.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted, with no lack of bitterness nor spite. "No time for small talk, as much as I would hate to sit and chat about the government. But while we're on the subject of small talk, how's the diet going? Don't answer that, I'm not interested. I need as much information as you have on child custody, how it works in best interest of the child, in order for Jayne to be able to move in with her mother after living with Jim Moriarty for the first twelve years of her life."

Mycroft sighed at his usually pretentious brother, who had barely had the courtesy to take a glance at him. But, that was his brother - no change whatsoever. Mycroft had had enough time to get used to it. If anything, far too much time. Nevertheless, Mycroft made his way over to the armchair, placing his umbrella leaning against the wall by the door before he went, and his briefcase upon the small table. From within the case, Mycroft produced a tall stack of papers, documents, and envelopes. He held them up in the air with one hand, presenting them to Sherlock. Sherlock reluctantly moved from his seat, the first time he'd moved all morning, to sit opposite Mycroft. He grabbed the documents off of him, and scanned his eyes over them. He gave John a certain look, but he seemed to get the message. Whatever the message was, for Jayne wasn't quite sure until she was spoken to.

"Uh, Jayne, why don't we go out for a while, yeah? What about lunch in the park or something?" John asked hastily, all in one breath.

"Okay," she replied, even when the fact hit her that she'd had breakfast no longer than an hour ago. She still found joy in the idea of going out. For Lunch. Going Out.

"Good," nodded John, taking his coat off the hook and wrapped another coat around the little girl. He opened the door for them, and Jayne stepped out. Before he left, John turned to Sherlock, returning a similiar, although different look. "Text me if you need anything...or I need to know anything."

Sherlock nodded, and John and Jayne left the flat.

* * *

Mycroft stayed in 221b for a long while. Even when John returned with Jayne trailing behind him, he was still there, with papers and files and letters and paperclips and pens flying around the living room. They were everywhere - John didn't think he'd ever seen the flat so messy. It was almost as if Sherlock had had a tantrum and thrown everything at great force and speed wherever he pleased. John wouldn't be surprised if that had happened. As they entered, Mycroft looked up from his seat at them casually, giving them a grin that might've been forced. Sherlock was sat back in his chair, plucking random strings unrythmically, and at odd moments.

Jayne had had definitely the most amazing meal she'd ever had. They went to Speedy's, because they weren't planning on going anywhere far, nor anywhere too expensive. John bought her a hot steamy, toasted ham and cheese sandwich. It might not sound so amazingly exciting, but for Jayne, it was. She loved the taste of it, and the hot feeling of it in her hands. It was just something she had never had before. John had a sandwich too. It was also toasted, but it was bacon. After eating their lunch at a table inside the shop, they walked down the street a while. Thankfully it wasn't raining, for a change, and for England it was surprisingly good weather. It wasn't raining, to say the least, and occasionally the sun would arise from behind a large cloud. When they were walking, Jayne got that feeling of a person looking over your shoulder, or following you from afar, but she had to keep reminding herself that there was nobody it could be anymore. He was dead. Everytime she reminded herself of that, she felt as if her lunch was going to come back up. She prayed it wouldn't, and blankly erased the thought from her head, but not for long. It always came back.

They stayed by the door for a minute, as the Holmes' brothers were silent. Finally, Mycroft nodded towards his brother, and then up at John. They both nodded back. It was like some secret code that Jayne couldn't decifer, or some sort of sign language she hadn't learnt. She gave each of them a puzzled expression, raising her eyebrows and looking at Sherlock as if to say, 'I want to know what's going on.'

Mycroft suddenly stood. "I think we're finished. Jayne, we must speak with you now." Jayne bit her lip, but gave in to oblige anyway. Meanwhile, John took a step backwards. "I'll just..err..."

"You can stay here," Sherlock cut him off, what he was saying sound more like an order than an offer. Obviously, John didn't object.

Jayne was lead to sit down between them both, and she got the feeling that this was far more serious than she had originally thought, as well as a lot more intimidating. A wooden chair had been pulled up from the kitchen, so she was forced to sit up straight. She felt like she was on display. All eyes were on her, staring her down until she became small. But that could've happenened inevitably - she was still the shortest and smallest person in the room anyway. She didn't know where to look, so she just looked down towards the documents upon the table in front of her. And finally, Mycroft took a deep breath, and began.

* * *

**Cliffhangers are fun. Thanks for all the reviews, and once again, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease tell me what you would think about a sequel? I can't decide! Thanks for reading xxxx**


	19. Life

"My brother and I," Mycroft began slowly and delicately. "Have been discussing where would be best and most convenient for you to stay, and with whom would be most suitable." Jayne nodded and stayed silent, despite the millions of things racing around her head, as if each thought was a strand, and they were tangling themselves in a knot which made her head hurt. She had no idea where she would be sent to. She kind of wished she was consulted earlier, but she assumed they needed to talk by themselves first for one reason or another, even if she didn't like it. More importantly, she wanted more information. But before she began speaking, she decided to try reasoning with herself. Firstly, she couldn't stay with Sherlock and John. It would be selfish to ask, let alone be complicated, difficult, and unsuitable. They had their own lives involving Sherlock's work, and also, no bedroom for her to stay in. That was out of the question, as much as she wouldn't mind one bit staying at the first place she ever entered where she felt safe, and as if somebody cared about her. Secondly, she obviously couldn't stay with a somebody she didn't already know, or had already met. They couldn't put her somewhere she didn't want to stay, it was a basic right, she knew. That fact helped her calm down. In conclusion, the only other place she could stay was with her mother. Could that happen? She debated this inside her head for some moments. But was she really going to just continue growing up in a trusted environment, go to school, go out for lunches, and live with her mother, like any other normal girl? She wished. What Jayne hadn't realized throughout the time she had been wondering, was that Mycroft had been speaking. A lot. And Jayne hadn't listened to a word. Suddenly she was welcomed back to reality by Mycroft staring downwards at her, his eyes wide as he expected a reply from her. She jumped a little, trying to let it go unnoticed.

"What? I'm sorry?" she replied quickly and hastily. She heard Sherlock smirk quietly from the other side of the room.

"You've successfully bored the girl to death, Mycroft. Much like you to drag it out for hours when the situation is really quite clear and simple. In short, Jayne, would you like to go live with your mother?"

Jayne's jaw dropped lightly as she took a deep breath. It was as if a spark had been lit, a light in the darkness of her lonely, sad life. A spark of hope, of happiness, and of excitement. "Yes," she breathed, managing to get no more out of her voice, but it was enough.

Sherlock nodded back, and Mycroft sighed. "Good."

* * *

Apparently Molly had been consulted. Quite a while ago, actually. Sherlock had called her last night, letting her know what he would be discussing with Mycroft in the morning. Molly was overjoyed - in tears, even - as soon as she found out all that she'd missed. She could get her daughter back, and that was all that mattered to her. She could keep her safe, watch her grow up. She could be a mother again. She could have her little Jayne back - the smallest baby Molly had ever seen, with big, sparkling blue eyes as blue as the noon's sky, and hair as dark as the night's. She was so beautiful, but she had been snatched away from her, and Molly was left powerless and scared. But now she could have her baby back. She could take care of her. In that moment she had sworn to keep her safe, keep her happy, and be the best mother to her she could be. Jayne was still offended she was the last to know about everything - even John had known about it from the start - but she was focusing more on the fact that she would have a real, real home. It was...unbelievable.

So Molly arrived at the house late in the afternoon - about quarter to five. She was wearing a flowery top with blue jeans, and a coat wrapped around her shoulders as she walked in with her black handbag resting on her shoulder. For a moment, Jayne sat in her chair and just looked up at her mother. Her mother. That part was still crowding her mind and daunting her. She really was her mother, and there was no way to describe her feelings towards her. She knew nothing was her fault, she had no control over the situation, and nor did Jayne - they were both victims of this. But Jayne didn't know who she was, not really. She'd spoken to her once. But everything had been explained. But there was still a lot she didn't know about her own mother. Where did she work? Where did she live? What does she do? Does she have a boyfriend now? Has she now got a step dad instead? Who is she? There was a lot she didn't know. But she was her mother. Could they really get along? They could try. That was, after all, what Jayne had decided. She wanted to try and she wanted to live in a safe environment, and if there was one thing that she knew, one thing that she could tell, it was that her mum wanted to keep her safe.

Sherlock was the first to speak. That was new. "Hello, Molly," he greeted, walking towards her from where he stood in the kitchen. Molly smiled up at him, and Jayne saw her cheeks flush. She bit her lip again. Did her mum...? No, really? Jayne thought about that. If she ever was going to get a step dad, ever...perhaps Sherlock wouldn't be too bad. At least Jayne knew him, and hell, he and John had saved her life. Completely. She still didn't know how she would thank them, or if she should. But Sherlock as her step dad... she couldn't imagine him every marrying. Falling out of her strange fantasy, Jayne reminded herself that it was only Molly who became flustered. Sherlock smiled, but only as if he felt he should. So Jayne brushed it off.

"Hi, Sherlock," she nodded, and then turned to Jayne, who was sitting in her chair, now with a small bag at her side, not larger than a handbag. Perhaps smaller. Most of it's contents were in fact from within Baker Street, such as the notebook and pen John had kindly said she could keep, and a spare coat they had in the cupboard, which she could borrow until she had her own. The only item which was truly hers was a second pair of shoes, and her phone. It was returned to her that day. John was around about lunchtime helping her to at least put something within her small bag, and dug her phone out of his phone and held it in the hand of his outstretched arm. "It's okay. It'll be safe. Think of it as just a normal phone; there's nothing wrong with it," he had reassured her gently. He always knew what to say. Taking a deep breath Jayne took the phone from his hand, and he gave her a proud smile. She shoved it quickly into her bag as if it was bomb that would go off at any second if it remained in her hand.

Molly smiled at Jayne, but looked shaken. It seemed as if Sherlock was the only person in the room who could pinpoint exact what feelings she was experiencing, whereas John and Jayne were clueless. "Hello, Jayne," she finally said softly.

"Hi," Jayne replied, trying to mirror the same softness in Molly's voice into her smile. She wanted to call her mum, and she was truly going to, but her own cowardice which stopped her.

"So," Mycroft butting in, his voice bellowing over all the others. Jayne could practically feel Sherlock wince. "You're all ready to go, I've heard. Whenever you're ready."

Jayne nodded, and stood up from her chair. John took a step towards her, and she wrapped her arms around him as she said goodbye. "Go on, now. You're gonna have a great life, you know that? Make sure you keep in touch, yeah?"

Jayne nodded. "Thank you," she said, which as much meaning and fondness she could possibly put into it. John nodded in return.

Before turning to finally leave, Jayne stopped in front of Sherlock. She was unsure how to say goodbye to him; it wasn't that simple with him. Thankfully, Sherlock deduced what he could, and picked up the hint. He settled for a handshake. Jayne had figured Sherlock wouldn't do anything more than that, and she could not and would not complain, considering the sheer amount he had done for her. He and John had risked their lives for her, and she would never forget it.

"Goodbye," Sherlock said as he shook her hand. "You'll have a good future now. Good luck."

"Thank you, Sherlock," she replied. "You've done so much for me that I could never repay you for." And with that, she turned to face her mother. Molly thanked them both greatly too. She lead her daughter down the stairs with a tender hand upon her back. She looked back over her shoulder to watch the door behind them close abruptly. _You're gonna have a great life, you know that? _She hoped so. She prayed for it, and she almost believed it.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll be posting another one hopefully pretty soon, as I have more time recently. Still think I need more views on a sequel? Reviewreviewreview! Thanks for reading xxx**


	20. The Castle

Jayne was lead out the flat for the last time, her mum closing the door behind them. She couldn't help but think that it might have been the last time she was ever in that flat. That flat was the first place that Jayne had ever felt safe, that had to mean something. In fact, it meant a lot. It was her first real home. But John had mentioned that her mum was a close friend, so she hoped that they would one day visit again. It wasn't as if they could just drift out of her life, right? It couldn't happen. But she had to look forwards, towards the fact that she was going to have a real home. A real home. Somewhere that wasn't just a hole in the ground, where so little sunlight entered that a deadly, earthy smell had formed wherever you went. It was a gloomy concrete box, filled with forbidding, lonesome air. Jayne had loathed it so much. But now she was going to live with her mother, in a house. She was experiencing a humongous mix of emotions, each one as prominent as the next. This made it hard to think straight, think logically about the situation. Her stomach was tied in knots, and if felt as if her mind was too. But as her mother closed the door behind her, and they were pushed outside by the strong, harsh wind, she looked back up at the flat one last time. Although, the gesture wasn't solemn; it was more like an act of closure. She was ready to find a place where she knew she belonged, even if it might not be there, where she had felt safe. It was the people she was with that made her feel safe, not the flat. And she knew she felt safe with her mum.

Molly turned to look at her daughter, and knelt down slightly so she was eye-level with the girl. She was so beautiful to her. She was her only daughter, and there was nobody else in the world Molly had cared more for. She had always been there, nagging in her brain. She had tried so hard to get her back, desperately. She would've asked for help earlier if she could, but Sherlock was busy. Not the usual busy, either. He was 'dead' for three years, tracking down and killing the lasts of Moriarty's henchmen. After that, Moriarty and his criminal web were believed to all be dead. Molly had a small spark of hope left, thinking that she was safe to return to her, but she was so terribly wrong. It physically pained her. Custody was a tricky thing, and as much as she had tried, she was struggling more than ever. But right now, and that moment, she believed that all her efforts were not in vain, as her daughter stood in front of her, with a smile upon her face. The first real smile Jayne had ever had on her face for at least thirteen years. Molly felt a tear roll down her cheek as she brought her daughter into her arms, holding her tightly.

"My beautiful Jayne," she whispered, sniffling a little. "My beautiful, wonderful Jayne."

The mother and daughter, reunited, hugged each other for another few seconds before Molly released, but looked up at her as she held her arms gently. "Hey, I don't actually live far away from Sherlock and John. We can visit whenever you'd like to, yeah?"

Jayne nodded, and Molly stood up straight again. They began walking down the street, and walked for quite a long way. "We can't exactly walk all the way home, but perhaps you'd like to go for a bit of shopping? Get you some new clothes, everything you need?"

Jayne nodded again. "I'd like that." She had never really had a selection of her own things. She had never owned a dress, and for some reason that the reason she felt most deprived. Wasn't it every little girl's dream to be a princess, and live in a castle, where her hair could grow so long it dangled out the window? Well, Jayne was no different. She felt as if this was a dream she wanted to for fill. She kept wondering about it. Her castle would be her new home, where she had her own room. And maybe she might just get a dress. She wouldn't get her hopes up for a lot, though. She'd done that before and gotten hurt. Once, physically. A second time, she had run away. And not from her father.

They walked up a few streets, turning left and turning right, crossing roads and going past cafes, and people who would look at them both and smile. Soon, they reached a shop Molly recognized. It was tall, noticeably larger than the others surrounding it, and the open windows were filled with plastic models, covered from head to toe with hats, scarfs, tops, skirts and shoes. They went in and were welcomed again into a bubble of warm air.

They were out for nearly the entire day, more and more bags climbing up their arms, and weighing them down. Jayne was overwhelmed by how much was bought for her. This wasn't...what she was used to at all. But what Jayne adored more than all her gifts, was the fact that her mum was talking to her and treating her like her daughter. Not that she wouldn't, but as if everything was normal. That the past years of Jayne's living hell had never existed. Maybe others in her position could've hated things like that, but Jayne loved it. She didn't want to be reminded of it, to be treated any differently because she wasn't a normal girl. She thought about it, and assumed that Molly understood that, or got that hint. She hoped so.

They had gone out for lunch too. They laughed about silly jokes, and Molly told Jayne stories of Sherlock, and how he had put eyeballs into the microwave, and would use a riding crop in the morgue on a regular basis. Jayne wasn't surprised by it at all, knowing Sherlock. She rolled her eyes and laughed. She _laughed_. That was what was shocking. She liked the feeling. She was happy. She was actually, genuinely, happy. And she couldn't say that was normal for her.

The large shop they had entered, filled with all the plastic models, was where they had bought Jayne a whole new wardrobe. She got a new pair of jeans, as apposed to the ripped, scruffy, too-small-to-breathe jeans she was wearing. She got some new shoes, and some pretty ones too. She even got a dress. A black dress, with a black ribbon highlighting the rim of the dress, as another layer hid beneath it. It had straps, and a flower pattern tangling its way around the belt. She adored that, too.

Later, at about 6.00 that afternoon, they hailed a taxi and were brought back to Molly's home. Molly and Jayne's home now, her mum told her. They entered the flat with the bunches of bags being dragged behind them, filled with clothes, toiletries, and even several books. Jayne was so overwhelmed, she couldn't stop thanking her for it all on the way back. But that didn't compare to the moment she entered the flat. It was so beautiful. To Jayne it was, at least. The front door entered into a study at first. It looked more like a library. Half of the books which stood on the shelves were non-fiction, and to do with Molly's work at the morgue. Another section was filled with her fiction novels, each one seemed completely different, different sizes, different colours. Another section was empty. "Here you go," Molly said, handing her one of the bags out of the bundle. Jayne couldn't fathom how she had found that so quickly, out of all the thousands. "You can put your books there." Jayne smiled, and carried her books over to place them carefully onto the shelf. She had about five, but it would soon fill up further, Molly had said. Jayne thanked her again for all her things. Molly had answered, "You don't need to keep thanking me, it's what you need." These books lay at the end of the shelf, and at the end of the shelf stood a wooden desk, with a laptop placed upon it, along with a lamp.

The next room that lead on from the study was the kitchen. This kitchen had gleaming white counter tops, with pastel coloured cutlery. As Molly dumped the bags onto the pale wood chairs that encircled the table in the corner, she went to boil the kettle which sat next to the sink. "Something to drink? Tea?" She offered.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."

"How about I show you your room? If you'd like to."

"I have a room?"

"Of course you do," Molly chuckled, lightheartedly.

Jayne felt her stomach flip as soon as her mum said that. Her own room. She had never had her own room before. She'd never had a home before, let alone her own room. Everything just seemed too perfect to be real.

Jayne took a few bags with her as Molly lead her towards the corridor which began through a door in the kitchen. Through this corridor were three doors. One on the left, one on the right, and one at the very end of the corridor. "My bedroom is on that side," Molly pointed towards the door upon the right. "And the bathroom is just that room at the end. Your bedroom's here, if that's alright." And with that, she opened the door to their left.

Jayne's breath practically caught in her throat as she took one step into the room. It was a large room, with a double-sized bed in the middle. Two small table tops sat on either side, and a chest of drawers was beneath the window.

"You could settle in a bit... put your new things into drawers, and...you know where the bathroom is. Let me know if there's anything else you need, and perhaps I'll call you once I've got something for us to eat all sorted. Yeah?"

Jayne just wrapped her arms around her. This was so perfect, so, so perfect. She finally felt like she was worth something. That there was something for her to live for. She might even go to school. She would stay with her mum, in this house. Her castle. Her impossible fantasies where actually...this. She couldn't understand how all of this was happening so quickly.

Molly held her daughter in her arms, hearing her sniffle into her shoulder. "Hey, there's nothing to cry about, now is there?" Molly soothed her, gently. She released her, and looked at her, wiping away her tears. "Let's get your things all sorted, so you can come back into the kitchen with some new clothes on, how about that?"

Jayne nodded, and Molly went back into the kitchen. She began wandering around the room as if everything was made of glass, or delicate feathers, which could not ever break nor wither. It was still so daunting. She stepped over towards her bed, where all her bags lay. She placed a hand upon the pillows, feeling their softness as if it was something from another world to her. And in a sense, it almost was.

She was just about to begin looking through her bag of new items, hang up her new dress, and put her toiletries into the bathroom, when she was reminded of her black handbag still draped around her shoulders. She pulled it off, and emptied the smallest number of contents that ever existed in a handbag onto the bed. The first thing which caught her eye was her phone. And for once, she didn't fear it. She wasn't afraid to take her phone in her hands, and didn't do it with a shaking hand. There was nobody left to hurt her. Nobody there to threaten her anymore. She smiled. Maybe she'd sent John a text, letting him know she was home, and how perfect it all was. As she flipped her phone on, she had two new texts. The first was from John:

**Hope you're okay. -JW**

And the second one was from an unknown number:

**Revenge. -SM**

Jayne threw the phone across the room, backing away towards the other side of the room, her worst fears met, and her heart beating furiously inside her chest. She knew who it was. How could she forget? Her perfection ruined by one second, she stumbled to the ground. Oh god, oh no, oh no...

THE END.

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**Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading it, and reviewing it :) I love you all :) And if you hadn't guessed, I have decided to do a sequel. Who could forget that Sebastian Moran was still alive? Hehehe. Goodbye, my lovelies xxx**


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